


I'm In Love With A Stripper

by GhostGarrison



Series: The Bone(r) Pit [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Awkwardness, Blushing, Illustrated, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nervousness, No Prostitution, POV Alternating, Pole Dancing, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:39:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7903432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/pseuds/GhostGarrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the most awkward interview of his life, Anders now has a job as a stripp—<i>exotic dancer</i>. Taking his clothes off every day for money isn't a glamorous job, but the little things make it worth it. Like the cash stuffed in the waistband of his panties or the odd stories he comes home with. Oh, and don't forget his ridiculously handsome boss Hawke. <b>[this will be the rest of "The Bone Pit"]</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pour It Up - Rihanna

It reminds him a bit of a pole he’d find in a fire station, where a half-dozen firefighters swiftly slide down its length during an emergency. But Anders is no firefighter, and this is not a fire station pole.

At nearly five in the afternoon, The Bone Pit is empty, save for a few staff members who are busy getting ready for business hours. Anders stands on the center stage alongside Zevran, who is diligently training him on how to properly and effectively use a pole during a routine. 

Instead, Anders stares at the pole as if it is an enemy, slightly intimidated by the task at hand.

“Grip the pole lightly, like you would a lover,” Zevran says with a wiggling eyebrow, and it takes a solid moment for Anders to realize he’s making a joke. “See? Now you’re smiling, much better. But I am serious. You need only a firm grip, but not so much that your knuckles turn white and your hands hurt afterward. Let’s try a twirl, shall we?”

The elf demonstrates on one of the poles, and Anders mirrors him—albeit with less fluidity and grace that only came with time and practice. They’ve been training since one o’clock, and Anders’s mind has been cataloging all the moves, tips, and tricks that Zevran has provided him—including rules and warnings as well. It’s a lot to juggle, so much to remember, but he hopes it’ll start to come naturally to him sooner rather than later.

“If you ever find yourself getting tired, you can also work some slides into your dance,” Zevran adds, positioning his back against the pole and sliding down it in an admittedly appealing way, knees spreading wide before he slides back to a stand. “That way you can get little moments of rest and get some of your weight off your feet. Plus it’s very sexy.”

Having never been to a strip club before, nor seen an actual pole dance routine that wasn’t from the internet, Anders finds himself fascinated with the way Zevran dances. He uses the pole like it is an extension of him, not an accessory or prop. It becomes crucial to his routine, using it to compliment his movements. He rolls his body in constant perfect waves, spinning around the pole in various directions while not missing a beat. 

When he finishes, he takes one look at Anders and grins widely.

“I see I’ve impressed you.” Anders nods. “Good! Now you have something to aspire to.”

“How did you do the thing with the… thighs?”

“Ah, that? That’s a trick I picked up from Fenris. But don’t ask him to show you anything. He’ll tell you the dancing we do is not ‘real pole dancing,’” he says, mimicking the other elf’s deep grumble, making them both chuckle.

Anders has only met Fenris once, earlier in the day for just a passing introduction, but he could still tell Zevran’s impression of him was spot-on.

“Why would he say that?” he asks, his curiosity finally getting the best of him.

“Fenris is—how should I put this? Ah, he’s a true professional.” When Anders’ eyes narrow in speculation, Zevran just nudges him gently. “Just try to peek in on his performance tonight, okay?”

Anders nods, wondering what about Fenris’ dancing is so ‘professional.’ 

“In the meantime, let’s practice some more.”

When Anders is able to do all the moves to Zevran’s satisfaction, he’s asked to do a short improvised routine. “To see your improvement… And to see the fruits of my hard work, too!”

Zevran uses his phone to play another song, just loud enough for the two of them to hear, and steps back to give Anders room to perform.

With a host of new moves at his disposal, Anders finds dancing a bit easier, more fluid and less strained. He tries to keep Zevran’s tips in mind: always keep moving, link similar moves to create a rhythm, rolling his entire body along with the bassline.

He’s in the middle of a backslide and shimmy when the front door opens, and in strides Hawke with Isabela at his side. They’re both talking about something, but the man visibly freezes in his step when he spots Zevran and Anders onstage.

Anders can feel Hawke’s eyes lock onto him, and the weight of his gaze causes him to fumble, ungracefully slipping down the pole until his rear hits the ground. “Oof.”

“Hello, Serah Hawke!” Zevran calls, giving him a small wave.

When Hawke still only stares wordlessly, Isabela elbows him sharply in the ribs, causing him to snap to attention. His expression is difficult for Anders to discern from far across the darkened room, but he does see the man turn away, running his fingers through his shock of dark hair.

Rolling her eyes at her friend, Isabela turns back to them. “How’s the pole training going?”

“Anders is such a quick learner! He’ll be ready in no time,” his mentor replies with unfathomable enthusiasm. At least someone has confidence in him. Anders lost a considerable amount of it when he realized he fell on his ass just because someone hot walked in.

Maker damn him.

“Let’s go to your office, Hawke.” Isabela takes Hawke by the arm, leading him towards the business offices. The touch is casual, impersonal, but Anders feels a tinge of an emotion he can’t quite place. “There’s not a lot of time before our clubs open.”

When they disappear up the stairs, Zevran offers his hand to Anders, helping him to his feet again. “Well, well. Our dear employer was in quite a state, hm?”

“How so?”

But Zevran just hums in response before announcing that training is over. He shoos Anders towards the door, instructing him to come back in two hours, well-rested and ready to work the floor.

 

◆

 

Anders spends an hour introducing himself to the ‘regulars,’ as pointed out by Zevran. A few of them brush him off, clearly only having attention for a specific dancer, but most of them show some level of interest in the new employee. One even says, “I look forward to a dance from you,” to which Anders clumsily says “thanks, me too” before quickly fleeing that section of the floor.

Most of his evening is spent observing. Alistair did say the first night is always strange, if not pretty awkward for new dancers. The man in question is now shamelessly wiggling his ass in front of a group of patrons across the room, a bunch of bills already tucked into the waistband of his tiny orange shorts. Sebastian is nowhere to be seen, supposedly working the VIP room at the request of a high-paying customer. Anders eyes the curtains blocking the view into the small room, wondering if he’ll ever see the inside of it during work hours. Zevran is currently sitting across the lap of a client—something Anders cannot picture himself ever doing, but it seems easy and casual for the Antivan. The client is talking to him and he listens very intently, nodding and smiling periodically.

Cullen is currently the only dancer on stage, and Anders is surprised to see that the man has become a completely different person. The bashful personality that Anders saw in the dressing room only an hour before has vanished. The blond is all confidence and charm, his scarred lip twisted up in a cocksure smirk.

It’s a persona, and quite an impressive one. Perhaps that is something he can try to aim for.

Anders is spending his allotted break backstage when he hears Fenris’ stage name announced on the floor. He jumps to his feet, wandering his way to one of the side stages, peeking through a crack in between the curtains.

The elf stalks onto the center stage without ceremony, already stripped down to just a pair of black athletic spandex shorts that cling to him like a second skin. His curling white tattoos are incredibly eye-catching underneath the bright lights of the center stage. But while his tattoos are striking, it’s the rest of the elf’s toned body that truly steals the show.

With zero bravado, Fenris swiftly climbs the pole, strong hands gripping the metal as he swings around it. His legs easily lift from the stage, and Fenris holds himself as steady as bedrock as his toes point toward the wall, then the ceiling. The audience gasps, cheers, and applauses at the performer’s strength and skill—and Anders is just as in awe as they are.

“Impressive, right?” his mentor whispers over his shoulder.

“Sweet Maker!” Anders agrees in a similar volume, eyes still focused on Fenris as he takes on a new, more complicated pose five feet off the ground. It made Anders sore just looking at him. “How does he do that?”

“That’s what I meant when I said he’s a professional,” Zevran explains. “He wouldn’t teach you—he wouldn’t teach any of us, simply because I don’t think anyone else here is capable of _that._ ”

“He must make so much money,” Anders comments in disbelief, unable to tear his eyes away from the elf’s ridiculously athletic but surprisingly tame routine.

“If I were to place a bet, I’d say he makes the least. Fenris doesn’t do private dances or work the floor like the rest of us. He has a little bit of a touch-aversion, you see.”

“How can a dancer be afraid of touch?”

“I don’t think we consider him a dancer anymore. He dances, sure, but that is where it ends. He only takes the tips thrown onto his stage and leaves.”

“He’d turn down the opportunity for more tips?” With Anders’ debt, he couldn’t picture it. He needed every cent that customers would give him. “Why?”

“I don’t think he’s here for the money. If anything, he does it for the love of the sport.”

His break ends too quickly and Anders is back on the floor, trying to sweet talk his way into the graces of the regulars. One of them—Hugh? Hugin? Something with an H—waves him over. In a strange turn of events, Anders finds himself nearly straddling the man, hips gently swaying in a weak semblance of a lap dance. The only reason he has the confidence to do this on his first night is because the client is quite drunk and apparently has money he wants to get rid of. Various crinkled bills find their way into the waistband of his shorts, and, _well,_ Anders won’t turn that down.

His client is babbling at him, something about work and his wife and having no time to himself. Having nothing to say in response to the man’s issues, Anders just nods at him during pauses. 

Over his client’s shoulder, Anders spots someone emerge from behind the curtains of the VIP room. Tall, handsome, and fully dressed. _Hawke._ In an instant, they both notice each other, then notice each other noticing each other. Feeling his cheeks coloring, Anders quickly glances away, trying his best to not be distracted by the man who is so clearly looking at him. Instead, he trains his attention on the client who seems completely content with just staring at his hips.

When Anders dares to look back up, Hawke is gone.

 

[](http://storybookhawke.tumblr.com/)


	2. Hot In Here - Nelly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is smitten for his newest employee and Isabela gives him a hard time about it.

The moment the office door closes behind them, Isabela spins on her heel to face Hawke. The smirk on her face is all too knowing, and he’s learned over the many years of being her friend that such an expression is about to get him in trouble. A lot of trouble.

“ _You,_ ” she begins, jabbing him in the chest with a ring-laden finger, “are an absolute mess.”

Hawke frowns, batting her hand away. “What? How so?”

“Oh, playing innocent, are we?” The woman quirks her eyebrow at him, crossing her arms. “You. Downstairs. Dr. Anders. Your jaw on the ground—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hawke replies curtly, retreating to the safety and familiarity of the comfortable chair behind his desk. “And how did you know he’s going to be a doctor?”

She rolls her eyes at him, expertly evading the question. “That’s not the point, Hawke.”

“Then what is the point?” he snaps, getting impatient. Isabela is trying to get something out of him, and he knows from experience she’ll inevitably be successful, but hopes she’ll speed up the process sometime soon.

“The _point,_ ” she says sharply, circling around his desk to sit on it instead of in one of the perfectly good chairs across from him, “is that you are completely _smitten_ with the man.”

“What? Of course not,” Hawke replies, the topic instantly putting him on the defensive. “If you haven’t noticed, Isabela, he’s a dancer. Maker, he’s my _employee._ ”

Isabela simply glares at him, raising an arched eyebrow higher. She’s nothing if not incredibly perceptive—sometimes irritatingly so at times. There is truly no getting around this. When Isabela puts her mind to something, she does it no matter how impossible the task. Apparently the woman has set her mind to coercing the truth out of him.

Letting out a frustrated groan, Hawke drags a hand down his face.

“Is it that obvious?” he mumbles through his fingers, eyes cast down as to not look his best friend in the face.

She scoffs. “Maybe not obvious to a blind man but—”

“Dear Maker—he’s an employee!” he repeats, getting steadily more exasperated about the whole situation. He’s Garrett fucking Hawke, owner of The Bone Pit for six years, and apparently ‘smitten’ with an employee for the first time. The notion isn’t unheard of, it’s just… “It’s incredibly unethical.”

“Having a little crush isn’t unethical.”

He bristles at the word ‘crush.’ It sounds so juvenile, and the thoughts he has about Anders are anything but juvenile. Inappropriate for a boss to have about his employee? Certainly. But Hawke cannot remember the last time he felt this attracted to someone from the beginning, especially after barely speaking to them.

“I hardly know him.”

“Hasn’t stopped you before. Or me, for that matter.”

True. Hawke has had his fair share of one night stands, acting on his physical attraction with a mutual party. But this feels different. He feels more than that. Hawke rolls his eyes at the truth his friend so blatantly laid out before him, leaning forward in his chair until his forehead thumps against the surface of the desk. It’s a pitiful act, but he is a pitiful man in a pitiful situation. An idiot, really. A Maker-born moron.

“I just want to know one thing, though,” Isabela starts, her usual teasing tone turning earnest as her fingers thread through his hair. “You’ve never fallen for a dancer before. Why now? Why Anders? How’s he is ruffling your feathers?”

His brain is already wheeling to compile a list, now aptly titled the ‘Why Anders’ list. The speed in which this list grows exponentially is something he really doesn’t want to think too hard about.

The man obviously has great determination, both in his life’s work as a medical professional and his approach to dancing. His work ethic is admirable as the man clearly works two, essentially three jobs—student, doctor, and now dancer. But, of course, nearly everyone would find this quality attractive.

And, despite not being even remotely close to Hawke’s usual type, he’s incredibly sexy. 

His mind likes to torture him by replaying that late afternoon—the way Anders’ face flushed a beautiful pink under the stage lights, the glorious and hypnotizing sway of his hips, that thrilling flash of confidence as he boldly stepped in between Hawke’s spread legs and stared into his eyes. 

There’s something about Anders that Hawke could get drunk on, and _oh,_ how he wants to.

“He’s... cute,” is ultimately all he can offer, and of course the confession sounds juvenile. Great, just fucking great.

“What? Cu—? Andraste’s tits!” She throws her head back and laughs. “Shit, you’ve got it bad.”

“What am I to do, Isabela?”

“Oh, I don’t know, _talk_ to him? Get to know him like a normal human being?” He stares at her incredulously. She scoffs and rolls her eyes theatrically, tossing her hands into the air. “Or, you know, try to get over it. Or bottle it up. Whatever floats your boat.”

She has a point. There are only two directions he could go in, but neither is particularly appealing. He could either talk to the man, possibly become his friend, or he could maintain his distance and try to forget all about this. The latter would be the safest option, and puts neither of their jobs in danger, but his heart still continues to battle his head over this matter that should be so easily decided.

In all honesty, Hawke wouldn’t want to put Anders in an uncomfortable position. But he would like to become his friend, or at least clear the air regarding their previous awkward interaction at the interview.

He could settle for that.

Hawke groans, unable to believe how this skinny blond doctor-to-be has reduced him—a man who hasn’t batted an eye at a dancer in years—into an easily-flustered wreck. It’s not often that Hawke’s “feathers are ruffled” as Isabela calls it, but rather usually he’s the one to do all the ruffling. Being on the other side of the situation is a little bewildering.

He huffs out another disgruntled sigh. “It would be extremely unprofessional.”

Isabela chuckles, patting him on the head again.

“Drama queen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a Hawke POV chapter, there will be a few of these sprinkled in but not as many as Anders, and all the chapter titles are gonna be based on stripper songs lmao
> 
> as always, kudos are great but comments are treasured forever (and fuel me!)
> 
> come find me on tumblr @ storybookhawke


	3. Get Low -- Lil Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders' first night on stage, and his audience is not just horny drunk guys.

It’s the start of the first shift where he’ll take the stage and fulfill the full role of an exotic dancer, and Anders is a little more than nervous. There’s a consistent nagging worry that he will do something wrong and doom all future chances of dances and receiving those tips that he so sorely needs to survive.

The only things that comfort him are the facts that Zevran has full faith in him and that he won’t be dancing alone, nor will he be on the center stage. Instead, he will be dancing alongside another dancer, hopefully one who will both get clients’ attentions and also draw attention away from him if he messes up.

Zevran approaches his station in the dressing room, a confident smile gracing his lips. “Sebastian will keep you company out there. You will do great, I’m sure of it.”

“Thanks,” Anders says meekly, wishing he had the same confidence in himself. He hopes that it comes with time and practice, that every shift won’t be as anxiety-inducing as this. Rising to his feet, Anders checks his appearance one last time before starting for the hall that leads to the main floor.

“Wait! Come here,” Zevran calls to him, beckoning him over to his station with the curl of a finger. When Anders stands before him, Zevran dips a few fingers into a small container and flicks a considerate amount of gold glitter on him like fairy dust.

Anders flinches as the glitter hits him, blinking rapidly and puffing air across his lips to loosen the sparkles. He glares at his mentor in question. 

“Isn’t there a stigma against glitter in strip clubs?” 

At least, that’s what the internet told him.

But Zevran only grins at him more, looking satisfied at his work. “Perhaps, but you’d be surprised about how many men get easily distracted by something shiny.”

Eyes narrowing, Anders considers what the elf said, ultimately agreeing with the strange yet probably accurate statement. Zevran has been a dancer for far longer than he, and Anders has a reasonable amount of trust in him not to sabotage his budding career.

Anders stands beside Sebastian behind the curtains, waiting for their introductions. In a rush of panic, he realizes he hasn’t picked a fake stage name for dancing yet. Anders freezes up in horror as he pleads with the Maker that the announcer doesn’t say his real name. 

They wouldn’t do that, would they?

“And,” the voice over the loudspeaker announces, which Anders has yet to figure out who it belongs to, “on the right side stage, Archer and newcomer Sparklefingers!”

‘ _W-what?_ ’ Anders’ mind stutters, hand clasping over his mouth to prevent him from voicing his reaction to the unbelievably ridiculous name. 

Sebastian flashes him a look of sheer delight in his misery before brushing past him, stepping out onto the stage. Quickly following, Anders plasters on a fake smile, disguising his shock and building iron-willed determination to have a more than stern talk with whoever felt they had the right to bestow such a title without consulting him.

The stage lights are brighter than he expected, but it helps darken the audience so that he can avoid thinking about all the eyes he knows that are suddenly turned his way. The song playing in the club has a good beat, and he tries his best to keep up with Sebastian’s pace and not stand out too much.

It’s only his first night on stage, after all.

Minutes into the song, he focuses more on what Zevran has taught him. He notes certain moves get more money tossed at his feet, and he files that information away for future reference. While Sebastian is clearly more skilled, Anders is not doing too bad himself. On two occasions, a man seated close to the stage motions for him to stoop down closer to his level, tucking two generous bills into his waistband with a wink. Anders ends up winking back at the man, hopefully it looks less awkward than it feels.

His time working the floor, dancing for individual clients, is a lot less stressful than pole dancing. Anders prefers the one-on-one experience over being up on stage for all to see. Most of the clients tip him the minimum, but Alistair warned him that might be the case until he builds up client relationships and a steady, devoted fanbase.

At one point during the evening, Anders’ eyes drift from his work toward the bar. He expects to see Merrill, a delicate-looking elf and the only woman working at The Bone Pit, filling drink orders behind the bar, but instead he sees someone much taller and broader.

Hawke is rubbing the edge of a glass with a towel, chatting across the bar with a client who seems to be more intent on drinking liquor than watching the dancers. The way Hawke holds himself exudes a strong confidence that does things to Anders. He feels a ping of—certainly it couldn’t be _jealousy_ —an emotion he doesn’t want to name when Hawke laughs at something the client says in a seemingly flirtatious way.

Anders finds it incredibly difficult to tear his eyes away from his employer for the rest of the evening. Though he dances for various people around the main floor, Anders always seems to know where Hawke is, like a sixth sense. He becomes a little more self-conscious, wondering what Hawke thinks of him and of his dancing.

With all of his willpower, he pushes those questions far out of his mind, trying to focus on the task at hand. Which is to say, attempting to get a rather handsy client to tip him without touching him too much. Every time the man’s hand settles on his thigh, Anders forces out the most polite smile he can and slowly pushes the hand away. But the hand keeps finding its way to his thigh, and Anders has to hold back all the rude comments that are bubbling up. 

It’s going to be a long night.

 

◆

 

Just after two in the morning, The Bone Pit is finally, mercifully empty of customers and the front door is locked.

Anders sits at his station in the dressing room, wiping as much of the glitter he can from his face and neck with a wet cloth. It’s a fruitless mission, as the Maker-damned sparkling offenders are glued to his skin from the sweat. Most of the dancers have well-practiced end of shift routines that take much less time than his, and took only minutes to count their money, change clothes, and leave. Zevran was one of the first to sweep out of the dressing room, after announcing his date with his girlfriend for the tenth time of the night and blowing them all a kiss.

Cullen, the only other dancer in the room, bids him goodbye but practically runs into someone in the doorway. “Hawke,” Cullen says stiffly, nodding in acknowledgment before shuffling around him to leave.

The sound of his employer’s name makes Anders pause and turn toward the dressing room entrance. Hawke nearly fills the entire doorframe, exaggerating his already brawny stature. The man looks a little disheveled—red patterned shirt untucked from his black pants, hair messy from the rush of the evening, looking like he ran his hand through it many times. His brown eyes glance around the empty room before finally settling on Anders.

“Hello,” Anders offers after a moment, wondering why Hawke has appeared in the one place he doesn’t need to be. Unless… unless he’s looking for him. Immediately his heart fills with dread and panic. Did he not do well? Did he not fill some quota unknown to him? Is he about to be let go?

“Hey,” Hawke replies, voice low like a rumble in his chest. He clears his throat, speaking more clearly. “Just thought I’d drop by and, uh, check in on you since it’s your first real night here.”

“Ah,” Anders says, his sigh easing the tension in his shoulders. ‘ _Not fired,_ ’ he tells himself. ‘ _Not yet, at least._ ’ “It went fine, I think.”

“Zevran… is a good teacher,” Hawke says, frowning when Anders’ eyes simply search his face silently. The man grumbles and Anders strains to try to hear the words. “What I’m trying to say is: you did a good job tonight.”

“Thank you. I’m glad you think so.”

“I—”

“Hawke,” interrupts a soft feminine voice, from the hallway. Merrill appears a moment later, her large green eyes darting around the room before rounding on her boss. “Phone call for you. I put them on hold, but they said something about forgetting a wallet.”

Letting out the long exasperated sigh of a man who has dealt with one too many of these calls, Hawke nods to her. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Anywho, I’m going home,” Merrill continues, sounding too cheerful for half-past two in the morning. She hoists the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder, slender fingers grasping it tightly. “Goodbye Hawke, goodbye Anders.”

After returning the sentiment, the two men watch the small elf leave before turning their attention back to one another. A moment of awkward silence passes before Anders speaks, and Hawke looks a little relieved when he does.

“Is she okay working here?” he inquires, but quickly blanches when he realizes it may seem like he’s implying that The Bone Pit is an unsafe place to work. “I mean, she’s the only woman here.” A statement which, to be honest, didn’t sound any better. “That is, will she be fine going home alone?”

Hawke stares at him with an unreadable expression before he chuckles, lips cracking into a smile as he shakes his head. “She may be small, but Merrill could fuck you up if she wanted. I used to worry a lot more about her, but I know from experience that she can handle herself.”

“Ah, that’s good,” Anders says, now trying to imagine the scenario that Hawke is referring to. He can’t quite picture the elf being anything else but the sweet, gentle girl he’s seen working as a waitress. But he’ll take Hawke’s word for it.

They both just stare at each other for a few moments, both obviously searching for something to say. Hawke runs his fingers through his hair, messing it up even more, and the sight of it reminds Anders of bedhead. Like Hawke had just woken up from having a _very_ good night.

The thought of that makes Anders begin to color, and he begins patting his face with the now-dry towel to hide it.

“Anyways,” Hawke says carefully after a pause, already moving toward the door. “It’s getting late, so I’ll leave you be.”

Without another word or giving Anders a chance to reply, Hawke disappears, closing the door with a quiet click.

His gaze lingering on the door, Anders ponders their conversation. Things seem to be getting a little less strained and awkward between them. It should give him some relief that he doesn’t have a negative working relationship with his employer, but now Anders considers it dangerous as the man gets more and more attractive each time he sees him.

Bedraggled hair, broad shoulders and chest, a warm and charming smile, and those mesmerizing chestnut eyes that keep capturing his own.

Very dangerous, indeed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders is slowly getting that confidence, and Hawke can't keep his eyes off his newest employee.
> 
> I'm very excited about upcoming chapters, we're gonna pick up the pace a little.


	4. Motivation — Kelly Rowland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Anders see each other outside of The Bone Pit.

Kirkwall School of Medicine’s student-run clinic is always a bustling scene, never without patients in the examination rooms nor the lobby.

Anders is one of the three medical students under the supervision of the attending physician, all working to get the experience they need to move to the next level of their education. Though he now has another job that takes up even more of his time outside of class, Anders still has more clinical hours than any other student. 

Some call him a workaholic, but he just calls it dedication.

He’s been working at The Bone Pit for over two weeks now, going from class to the clinic to the club five days a week, and working the evening shift on the sixth. The way his responsibilities stack keep him awake and on his feet for about nineteen hours straight each day, but the money he earns by from dancing has essentially pieced his life back together. His car now runs without problems and his apartment will have heat this upcoming winter. Maybe soon he’ll be able to make payments toward repaying his student loans. 

He still has a long way to go, but being able to buy groceries and gasoline helps ease his mind immensely.

As most of his shifts at the clinic, Anders’ day has been full of minor and thankfully unexciting cases. Colds, earaches, stomachaches, small bone fractures that only require a brace and a bottle of pain-reducers. It’s tedious work, but it’s required for his program. Even if it wasn’t necessary, he still enjoys working with the people of the surrounding community, as most of the patients are in desperate need and cannot afford anything more. If anything, the people he sees serve as his motivation, to work hard to become a fully-fledged doctor.

“Anders,” says one of the nurses who approaches him at the center station. Lirene smiles warmly at him, holding out a thin folder for him to take. “New patient in room four. Child, female, fever, might be a cold.”

He thanks her, passing her the last patient’s file notes to be entered in the clinic’s computer system before making his way down the hallway.

When he arrives at room four, he doesn’t know what he expected, but it certainly isn’t this. Anders is completely taken aback by what he sees. A large frame filling one of the chairs and familiar brown eyes flickering to him, mirroring his own surprise. 

“Hawke,” Anders finally says, coughing once to hide the confused tone in his voice. He quietly shuts the door behind him, allowing him to take in the scene more clearly. 

Wearing a pair of faded jeans with rips at the knees and a plain shirt, Hawke is dressed more casually than he is at the club. His hair isn’t as messy as usual, but it still is early in the day. He looks incredibly different outside of the button-up and tie he usually wears, and Anders can’t decide which look seems most Hawke-like.

But most importantly, he’s cradling a small child in his thick arms. The girl—a honey blonde in messy braids with a flushed face—is slumbering with her head resting against his collarbone, arms loosely thrown around his neck in a semblance of a comforting hug.

Hawke just looks at him dubiously. “You’re the doctor here?”

“Medical care provider,” he corrects him, not having earned the official title of doctor just yet. “But yes.”

“Oh.”

“So,” Anders continues without a moment’s pause, ignoring the man’s tone before he has the chance to overthink it. “What are you here for?”

“Bianca,” Hawke says while motioning to the sleeping child in his arms with a tilt of his head, “has a fever. It started this morning and it’s only gotten higher.”

Taking a seat on the rolling chair and shifting his attention to the girl, Anders takes inventory of what he observes. Indeed, Bianca’s skin looks fever-red, her breathing is a little labored and she sniffles before rubbing her face further into the fabric of Hawke’s shirt.

“How old is… your daughter…?” he ventures, trying to sound casual about his inquiry. The answer shouldn’t matter, Anders reminds himself. Hawke has a life outside of The Bone Pit and he has no business prying into it, as tempting as it is.

“Oh, she’s not mine,” Hawke says quickly, and Anders should definitely not feel as relieved as he does. “I’m helping a friend out today. And she’s three.”

“Hm, tell me about her symptoms,” Anders says, rolling his chair across the floor to fetch a thermometer from the counter’s drawers. As Hawke explains the development of her symptoms over the course of the day, he finds that Bianca’s fever is indeed high, almost dangerously high for a girl her age.

“Working nights means I’m free during the day, so Varric has me on babysitting duty a lot,” the man rambles after listing out her symptoms. Anders nods, though he doesn’t know who this Varric is. Nor does he know what it’s like to have free time. “But she’s never gotten sick on my watch. Until now.”

“... Uncle Hawke,” Bianca mumbles, eyes slowly sliding open as she stirs. Both men turn their attention toward the girl. She sneezes, then daintily rubs her nose with the tissue Anders swiftly produces from his lab coat pocket. Yawning, she brings a small fist and rubs her eye with it. “I don’t want to go to school today.”

At her declaration, Hawke simply stares and blinks before letting out a soft affectionate chuckle. Anders notes the way his worried expression momentarily shifts to a warm-hearted smile, and how Hawke’s arms subtly wrap around her a little more protectively. “You aren’t, and you don’t have to go back to school until you feel better.”

“Good,” is all the girl grunts before immediately falling back asleep.

“Well,” Anders begins after a beat, rising from his chair. “She has influenza, most likely from another child in her class. She will be fine after some rest and care for a few days, but I’ll get you some medication.”

 

◆

 

With a curious eye, Hawke watches Anders—one of the Maker-damned dancers on his payroll—shuffle through various cabinets, and he can’t stop himself from thinking. Over the years of owning the club, most of his employees have taken up dancing as either a full-time career or a secondary job while attending school part-time. 

But not Anders, Hawke realizes. He’s different, he’s _more_. The blond man across the small examination room is not only a full-time graduate student, but works a community clinic in the hours before he dances for strangers for hours. Does he ever stop working?

It’s an interesting experience, to see one of his dancers do anything else than what he pays them for. Seeing Anders in his blue scrubs and lab coat—even his neon green crocs—is like seeing a masterpiece come together, an end goal achieved. It dawns on Hawke that this is his element, doing the job that he is destined to do. The man is so determined, so skilled in whatever he puts his mind to, and it practically shames Hawke. Anders must be superhuman to work as much and as hard as he does.

And _tired_. Brown eyes carefully scan over Anders, taking in what he sees. The man is more pale than usual, though Hawke almost always sees him blushing at the particular attention he receives at the club. There’s a certain darkness under his eyes that must be well-disguised under the club’s low lighting, a darkness that has been etching into his skin after years of sleeplessness.

Superhumans must have limits too.

There is no doubt that Anders can tell he has little experience with caring for sick children. The doctor-in-training is sending him home with explicit instructions that even an idiot could follow, calling for plenty of fluids and rest, and a small packet of acetaminophen to be taken in intervals until her fever goes down.

“Please tell her father what I have told you today” Anders says, walking beside them as he escorts them back to the waiting room. “And if Bianca gets any worse, please take her to an actual hospital.”

“Alright.” Hawke nods, shifting Bianca in his arms until her head is resting on his shoulder. “See you tonight.” 

But as those last few words slip out, Hawke immediately feels regret. Quickly his eyes dart to the other man, whose expression is frozen. With a curt nod, Anders excuses himself and darts into the depths of the clinic.

‘ _See you tonight._ ’ It echos in Hawke’s head. How could he be so stupid? Anders is a professional, and anyone within earshot could absolutely jump to so many wrong conclusions.

For a moment, he wonders how Anders took what he said. Though he meant seeing him at the club later, the way it came out sounded... not quite so casual. The wording and tone almost made it seem like they were meeting later under different pretenses. Not for work, but for company. A date, perhaps.

“Ser, are you checking out?” the receptionist asks, peering over the counter at him. “Ser? … Ser?”

“Yes,” he says, finally snapping out of his reverie.

Though it’ll never happen, dating Anders a nice daydream to have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uncle Hawke is Best Hawke.
> 
> Comments feed my motivation!


	5. Swimming Pools — Kendrick Lamar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a student and working too jobs is hard on Anders, and Hawke really needs to buy a couch.

Anders wakes feeling drained and groggy, like he hasn’t slept a wink in the past four hours since he fell face-first into bed. 

The clock’s alarm painfully blares like emergency sirens in his ears, and he slams the snooze button one, two, _three_ times. When his eyes crack open to see the flashing glowing numbers, he leaps out of bed, but the strength of his legs betray him and he staggers instead. With as much energy as he can muster, Anders pulls on what he assumes are clean clothes, brews a mug of bitter coffee, and races to campus. 

It’s fifteen minutes after lecture began when he stumbles in through the side door of the auditorium, and countless sets of eyes turn on him as he sneaks to the nearest open seat. Sitting in the back row does him no favors, as the massive clock on the wall behind the professor seems to magically jump forward every time he blinks his heavy eyelids.

Somewhere between class and clinic, his body begins to ache terribly and his mind grows fuzzy around the edges. He blames it on being tired, on not getting as much sleep as usual now that he’s taken on yet another job. So he takes a few pills, downs a glass of tepid water, and continues on with his work at the clinic. 

After all, his patients need him.

That night, the dressing room at The Bone Pit feels almost boiling at first, but as Anders changes into the evening’s gear, a surprising chill claws its way up his spine, chilling him to the bone and prickling his flesh. The way he shivers must not go unnoticed, as Alistair suddenly appears next to his station.

“Anders, are you feeling alright?” the man says, stooping low to peer at his face. His eyebrow quirks, looking over Anders with a critical expression. “You’re looking kind of… red. And you’re not even on stage yet!”

But Anders brushes off the man’s concern with an absent-minded wave of his hand, simply attributing it to his headache—which isn’t a complete lie. Alistair thankfully doesn’t press him any further, retreating back to his station to finish getting ready in the few minutes that remain before the evening begins.

His memory of his stage performance blurs into working the floor, where Anders dances for the same man for three songs in a row. If he had any real choice, he would have left the client after the first song or two—may the Maker damn the DJ for playing a five minute song right after a six minute song. But the man keeps requesting him and consistently tips him a steady amount.

Finally he is released from the man’s attention, and Anders weaves through the chairs and tables in search of another client. After the first few weeks of working as a dancer at The Bone Pit, he’s developed a keen eye for picking out customers. An effective night at the club comes down to a couple of factors: Can he see cash in their wallets when they tip or pay for drinks? How long have they been at the club? Are they drunk but not _too drunk_?

Finally Anders finds someone who is unfortunately inebriated, but fortunately holding a substantial amount of bills in his fist. As he dances, the fatigue weighs more and more heavily upon his shoulders with each passing minute. He hopes that his break comes soon so he can seek out a cup of coffee or three. Thankfully the customer doesn’t notice his unusually slow movement and growing distraction just yet, only orders another cocktail and enjoys what he sees.

Over the man’s shoulder, when he dares to look, Anders spots Zevran and Hawke conferring in the corner of the room. The sight of them both strikes him as strange—Hawke is still clad in his suit jacket, meaning he is still personally attending to the high-rollers in the VIP room, and Zevran has barely started undressing. The conversation is quick, the elf doing most of the speaking and the human nodding his head in return.

“I’m over here,” the client slurs, his sweaty hand dragging a path of fire down the chilled skin of his chest. “I’m paying you for this, if you even want my money.”

‘ _Ugh,_ ’ Anders thinks, trying his hardest not to let his reaction show on his face. Self-entitled customers are the worst, often getting grabby with their hands and stingy with their money. He knows he needs to wrap the dance up and find someone else who will prove to be a better tipper with a better attitude.

The song ends, and the client puts up a fuss when he tries walking away. “Stay here, babydoll.”

Anders shivers, but he’s not sure if it’s from the disgusting name he was just called by a complete stranger or the chilly air of the room. He mumbles a flimsy excuse, not even paying attention to the words that leave his mouth.

As he walks away, a hand wraps around his wrist, tugging at his arm. Anders spins on his heel, preparing to tell the client to let go, to not touch him ever again, to essentially fuck off.

But it isn’t a client. Said hand belongs to Hawke and Anders’ mouth snaps closed, all vitriol dying on his lips.

The man doesn’t release his wrist, but instead gently tugs at him. Anders allows himself to be led without protest, his employer guiding him off to the side of the main floor, to the corner near the door that leads upstairs.

“Hey,” Hawke says, his voice just barely audible over the strobing music that plays during Alistair’s solo stage routine. Anders has to lean in closer to hear him clearly. “Zevran is a little worried about you. Are you feeling okay?”

The question doesn’t quite register in his brain, but Anders nods anyways. Instead his thoughts wander to the fact that he’s not dancing, not earning enough to unbury him from debt or put food more nutritious than plain pasta on his table. Every minute idle is money lost, and he practically itches to get back out on the floor.

“Woah—”

Suddenly Hawke’s hands wrap around his shoulders in a firm hold, and the heat they generate feels so good on Anders’ frigid bare skin. For a moment, those big warm hands are the only thing that exist. It’s all he can do to not zero in on them and lose everything else.

“Sure you’re okay?” Hawke asks again, taking a step toward him and Anders can practically feel the heat pouring off the man. “You’re a bit unsteady.”

But he doesn’t get the chance to voice his answer. His knees go weak, the room spins, his vision blurs. Hawke’s expression changing from concern to distress is the last thing Anders sees before everything goes black.

 

◆

 

 _Warm_. 

The first thing Anders notices upon waking is how wonderfully warm he is, and how it’s a pleasant and welcomed change to how he was before.

Then he notices that he’s lying down. Frowning, Anders notes that it doesn’t feel the new mattress he splurged on with his first evening’s worth of tips. Instead, he lies on what feels like a hard floor covered by a thin carpet.

Which is definitely not right.

It’s a battle of sheer willpower to force his eyes open, squinting to stave off the sudden brightness that will blind him. But when his body finally obeys his command, he’s met with dim light. He blinks the bleariness out of his eyes, trying to get the details of the room to come into focus. Though only lit by the orange light of an outside streetlamp, he can tell the walls are white, there are two chairs shoved against the wall, and a large desk that fills up most of the room.

Hawke’s office.

He’s sprawled on the floor of his boss’ office, nearly naked but blanketed by a black suit jacket of a size that could only belong to one person.

Groaning, Anders reluctantly withdraws a hand from the warmth of the jacket to pinch the bridge of his nose. Behind his throbbing headache, his mind is reeling, gears slowly clicking into motion as he tries to remember exactly what got him to this point.

There was dancing, of course. It was hot, and then very cold. And enormous hands on him.

“Shit,” Anders curses aloud to the empty room.

He fainted. 

Stomach rolling with nausea, a wave of tremendous humiliation washes over him at the realization. Somehow he collapsed during the middle of a shift. In front of clients, in front of his employer. 

_‘Merciful Andraste,’_ he swears sharply in his head. Hawke must have carried him upstairs, as he certainly didn’t get here himself. He can’t help but to imagine it, being gingerly held by the man’s thick arms, carried somewhere safe and private. He pictures Hawke laying him down gently before shedding his jacket to keep him warm. However, instead of the reddening blush such a flustering thought would normally bring, it incites a feeling of horror within him.

If it were possible to die of embarrassment, this would be the time. Anders would gladly say goodbye to the mortal world and face the Maker after this.

All he can hope for now is that he didn’t cause too big of a scene. Anyone who saw might view him differently, and might not want to have him dance for them. In a flash, Anders anguishes over something uncontrollable and unpredictable tarnishing the reputation and relationships he’s been meticulously building since the first day.

When Anders sits up, he spots a glass of water on the desk. It’s full, untouched, condensation gleaming on the sides. He can only assume that it was left for him, and thank the Maker because his mouth is dry from dehydration. He only manages a few sips of the cool refreshment before deciding one of the chairs looks more comfortable than anything he’s ever seen in his life.

It takes some effort, nearly all the energy left within him, but he’s able to fold his lanky limbs into the confines of the chair. Curled up in a ball, the jacket covers more of him, and the renewed warmth only helps Anders succumb more quickly to sleep once again.

When he next wakes, it’s not because he feels well-rested—oh no, he feels like he could sleep another week if he had the opportunity or ability to do so. When his eyes flicker open, he sees Hawke trying to stealthily close a drawer of his desk, his physique a towering shadow against the glow of the streetlight.

The man looks up, brown eyes meeting his own. He opens his mouth to say something, but Anders beats him to it.

“I am so sorry,” he says, voice hoarse and raw. He tries to stop there but words keep tumbling out. “I must have caused such a scene. I shouldn’t have done that. I must be the worst employee—”

But he stops in his tracks when Hawke raises his hands in a calming motion, calling for him to yield.

“People get sick, Anders,” Hawke says, his voice husky but gentle. “It’s alright. It just means you’re human.”

The last part sounds a little bit like a jest, some sort of jab at him, but he simply does not have the brainpower to try to decipher it.

The man continues, familiar lines of worry slowly creeping back onto his face. “You shouldn’t be working if you’re not feeling well.”

“But I need to,” Anders offers weakly. His bills, his debt, his future on the line. He clears his throat, repeating it more definitively. “I need to.”

“Well,” Hawke begins, mouth noiselessly opening and closing a few times as he battles with himself about what to say next. Instead, he sighs and shakes his head. “The club is closed now and everyone is leaving. I can take you home… Unless you’d rather have someone else. I can ask Zevran or Alistair or—”

“I don’t want to trouble anyone.”

“I’d rather you not drive right now,” Hawke replies quietly, though the words seem more for himself than for Anders.

Ultimately he agrees to the ride, and does his best to keep himself together as he returns to the dressing room on shaking legs to change into his casual clothes and gather up his meager possessions. His shirt and jeans give him back a little of the warmth that this illness has stolen from him, but it’s Hawke’s jacket that he continues to wear draped around his shoulders that keeps him from shivering.

He follows Hawke out to the parking lot, the man’s hand wrapped around his arm above his shoulder to keep him steady. When they pass his car, Anders wonders what he’ll do tomorrow since his car will still be in the club’s parking lot, but he decides that’s a problem he can’t solve today. 

The humiliation of the situation still hangs heavily over him, stifling his thoughts, and he wonders if this is something he’ll ever get to forget.

He finds himself being eased into the passenger side of a rather nice car, one with comfortable leather seats and updated technology, completely different from his piece of junk. Just like the chair in the office, Anders believes the seat he slides into is the best thing in the world.

The drive is completely silent—no radio, no words exchanged, just the passing sounds of Darktown at half-past two in the morning—and it should have been awkward. But, Anders decides, he is too fucking sick to care. All he can think about is Hawke’s jacket wrapped around him and how it must smell like the man. There’s the faint ghost of cologne, but also a musk that is so inexplicably Hawke. He turns his head to catch the scent at the collar, breathing it in, keeping him warm on the inside as well as on the outside.

To keep his head from swimming, Anders rests his forehead on the window. The cool glass surprisingly feels incredible against his skin, his breath gently fogging it with every exhale. Through it, he watches the lights of Darktown whirr by, and Anders trusts that Hawke looked at his application for his address before heading out. 

When he feels the nausea settle, Anders spares a glance at the man driving. Hawke sits comfortably in the other seat, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gearshift between them. His eyes are trained on the road before them, giving Anders the perfect view of the man’s profile. It’s far too easy to admire every part of him—the slight ridge of his nose, the recently trimmed beard that follows the strong shape of his jaw, the tendons of his neck that slope into powerful shoulders and chest that he desperately wants to have under his hands. Hawke truly is handsome in every sense of the word, not to mention caring, understanding, and extremely patient as Anders found out today. 

It’s no wonder the man plagues his dreams at at night and his thoughts during the day.

Anders lets out a small yawn, feeling another wave of exhaustion come over him. He has zero inclination to fight it this time, but rather surrender to its temptation. The lulling movement of the car on its way to his apartment only pushes him closer to slumber's grasp. Just as heavy eyelids slide closed, Anders lets out a whisper before falling unconscious.

“This wasn’t how I imagined you taking me home.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Partner: "do u want any cliche tropes?"  
> Me, from another aisle: "I'M ALWAYS A SLUT FOR CLICHE TROPES"


	6. Late Night Special — Pretty Ricky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders goes to game night with the dancers from The Pearl, and receives his first request from the VIP room.

It takes a full four days for Anders to start feeling human again. He spends most of that time buried beneath all the blankets in his possession, surrounded by mountains of tissues and hordes of empty water glasses. Other than necessities, the only time he drags himself out of bed is for classes that he cannot afford missing. Even then, he’s bundled up in a baggy sweatshirt and thick knitted hat, silently suffering through each lecture in the back of the auditorium.

When he finally returns to work, Anders feels enormous relief when it seems that none of his regular clients noticed he passed out a week earlier. Only a few of them remark on how he’s been missing the past few days and say they are glad he’s feeling better. Their genuine responses surprise him, but he supposes it’s because he finally has a stable clientele who prefer him over other dancers.

That night, after the doors have been closed and locked, Anders is absently massaging the sore soles of his feet in the dressing room when Alistair suddenly waves a hand in front of his face.

“Want to come to game night tomorrow?” the man asks. “That is, if you’re not busy with school things.”

“Game night?” Anders asks warily, body and mind still a little drained. He’s mostly recovered from his influenza, but some of the aches and exhaustion still linger.

“Wicked Grace,” Zevran supplies from across the room.

“And Diamondback,” Alistair adds, nodding. “We haven’t had one in quite a while, and some of the girls from The Pearl have been pestering me about it.”

Anders takes a moment to consider the invitation. He's far too busy to be doing anything social. He hasn’t had the opportunity since bumping into Niall a few weeks ago, but they only were able to talk for a few minutes before Anders had to dash to the clinic.

When he looks up, he sees Alistair waiting expectantly for an answer. 

“Depends on when—”

“Tomorrow, since the clubs aren’t open.” When he agrees, Alistair pumps his fist into the air. “Good, good! So, The Pearl, tomorrow at seven.”

“Mi amore will be there as well, of course,” Zevran says, gathering the rest of his belongings into his bag. “She has been looking forward to meeting you ever since I first mentioned we had a new dancer.”

“Also, bring a bottle of something,” the other man says as they all walk towards the parking lot together. “It’s a bring-your-own-booze type of affair.”

At the end of the blissfully lazy day, Anders walks across The Pearl’s parking lot with a bottle of the cheapest Antivan brandy he could find clutched in his hand. The building is slightly larger than The Bone Pit, and located a few blocks closer to the busier parts of Darktown. In curling cursive lettering, the sign spells out ‘The Pearl’ above the silhouette of a naked woman. Anders wonders what color the sign glows, lighting the street like a beacon in the dark.

A stocky red-haired woman answers his knock on the door, leering at him with sharp, scrutinous green eyes before stepping aside to let him in.

Inside, The Pearl feels both strikingly similar to The Bone Pit. Though it has more poles and tables, the smell of perfume and depravity remains the same.

A strip club is a strip club, Anders supposes.

He follows the red-haired woman to a private room to the side of the main floor. Behind shimmery silk curtains are a whole host of people gathered around a large table that looks out of place.

“Anders!” Merrill exclaims, looking just as happy to see him as he is surprised to see her. “It’s nice to see you. Outside work, that is.”

“Glad to see you made it,” Alistair says. “We were about to get started.”

“I brought some—” he says, holding up the brandy for only a second before Isabela sneaks up from behind him and snatches it from his grasp.

“Oh? What’s this?” she says, examining the bottle. “Good choice, Anders. I’ve always been a brandy woman.”

The red-haired woman quietly scoffs, rolling her eyes as she settles down at the table. “And a vodka woman, and a whiskey woman, and an ale woman.”

“Now, now, Aveline,” Isabela replies with a sly smile and a wink. “You know I don’t discriminate—in liquor or sex. Anyway, I’ll go get a few more glasses from the bar.”

When she disappears behind the curtains, Zevran waves him over. “Anders, come sit next to us.”

Beside him sits a beautiful dwarven woman with dark brown hair braided into a bun at the nape of her neck and black geometric tattoos gracing the planes of her cheeks. She smiles at Anders as he takes the empty chair to the right of them.

“Anders, this is the light of my life,” Zevran tells him before turning to the woman, “Light of my life, this is Anders.”

She chuckles, a cheerful musical sound, and leans over her boyfriend to shake Anders’ hand. “But you can call me Natia Brosca.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Oh? Is this the newest Pit dancer?” An elf with fiery-red hair drawn back in a ponytail settles in the chair beside him. Anders grimaces at ‘Pit dancer.’ “My name is Tallis and you must be Justice!”

Anders bristles at his stage name being used outside of a shift. “It’s Anders, and how did—”

“I know things, a lot of things! Like you’re a medical student, and you work a free clinic, and you have a cat!”

“Isabela told you.”

“Yeah,” Tallis chuckles, nudging him in the side gentle with her elbow. “You got me.”

“Ladies, gentlemen, and hooligans alike,” Isabela’s voice rings out as she steps through the curtains with five glasses grasped between her fingers. “Pick your poison and deal ‘em up!”

With a glass of whiskey in one hand, Anders frowns at the unlucky assortment of cards in the other. Instead, he listens to the other dancers share various stories from over the years.

“And then Aveline grabs him by the scruff of the neck and drags his sorry hide outside! It was quite a sight,” another dancer—Charade if Anders remembers correctly—says.

“I remember that!” Tallis exclaims, smiling as she fans out another winning hand on the table for all to see. Anders incredibly relieved they’re not betting with money. “He kept trying to fight you! He was hilarious!”

“And a massive pain in my ass,” the bouncer mutters.

“Oh, I do wish I was there to see that one,” Merrill comments from her seat on Isabela’s lap. The couple have been sharing a hand during each game, Isabela telling her what cards to play. “I always miss the good bits.”

Aveline frowns. “Creeps are hardly ‘the good bits.’”

“But that’s what I pay you for, big girl,” Isabela replies.

A thought strikes Anders, and he turns to Zevran. “Do we even have a bouncer?”

“We did, at one point,” the elf replies. “But Hawke is a good stand-in in the meantime.”

“It’s not often that he has to remove someone,” Sebastian adds, “but when he must, he can look truly terrifying. It helps that he’s built like a brick house. He’s like a human mabari.”

“According to my spy, I hear he’s been spending more time on the floor,” Isabela says, lips turning up at the corners as her gaze slides to Anders.

“Your spy?” he asks, eyebrow arching in skepticism.

“Yes, he’s been helping me mix drinks,” Merrill adds.

‘ _Ah, that spy,_ ’ Anders concludes.

“I have noticed that too, Isabela,” Zevran agrees, laying out a winning hand and breaking Tallis’ winning streak. She curses in what he thinks is Qunlat, tossing down her cards in defeat.

“Oh? How recently would you say?” Isabela asks, smiling like she already knows the answer.

“I’d say about eight weeks, more or less. Exactly.”

That’s about how long he’s been working at The Bone Pit. He knows what they're implying but he doesn't want to make a fool of himself in front of everyone. Instead he keeps a straight face, turning his focus back to the new round of Diamondback.

“I thought Hawke only kept after the VIP room,” Charade says.

“He’s branching out,” Alistair replies, shoulders drooping when he draws a new card from the deck. “Mother of Andraste.”

“You’re shite at keeping a straight face,” Natia says, giving him a playful punch to his shoulder. Alistair winces at the punch, rubbing the sore spot on his arm with a pout.

“What happens in there?” Anders asks, the curiosity getting the better of him. 

Zevran pauses, staring at him with an arched eyebrow. “Wait, you haven’t…? Of course you haven’t!”

“Private dances,” Isabela answers. “Unless you boys do something different at the Pit.”

“It’s more strenuous—” Sebastian starts.

“Intense even,” Alistair interrupts with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“—but that’s where the real money is made.”

Anders wonders what amount constitutes as ‘real money,’ since what he’s already making as a dancer is better than any other part-time job.

“Mi amore and I will be going on a trip at the end of next week,” Zevran says, curling an arm around his girlfriend. “Next time I’m in the VIP room, I’ll put in a good word for you with my regulars.”

“Thank you.”

 

◆

 

The following week, The Bone Pit is down one dancer. Zevran announced that he plans to spend six days laying in the sun of Antiva’s golden coasts and share drinks with tiny umbrellas with Natia. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but Anders is a little envious. The weather in Kirkwall is getting a little colder, and he is reluctant to break out his heavy coat and surrender to the inevitable winter that approaches at an alarming pace.

Sure enough, just as Zevran promised, Anders receives his first request to the VIP room only days later. Alistair brings him this message, taking him by the shoulders and steering him across the floor.

“Things are different there,” Alistair whispers continuous advice into his ear. “Clients can do a little more touching, which results in a lot of tips. A lot of them. Like, a _lot_ lot. But don’t feel obligated to do anything you’re not comfortable with. You can always call Hawke if there’s any problems. If you’re lucky, he’ll only want to chat.”

Before he can turn to ask Alistair what that means, the other man leaves him right outside the room, returning to the floor to find one of his regulars.

He has no idea what kind of people are considered ‘high rollers’ that frequent the VIP room. A dozen ideas fly through his mind of who waits for him on the other side of the curtains. Taking a deep breath, Anders walks through them.

And is more than a little dumbstruck.

‘ _Seneschal Bran?_ ’ He almost says aloud, catching the syllables before they leave his lips. One of the last people he expected to be at The Bone Pit, much less its VIP room, was the Maker-damned second to the Viscount of Kirkwall.

“Hello,” he says instead, composing himself as he walks towards the man. Anders isn’t certain if he’s thankful or anxious about how they’re the only two people in the room.

“Ah, you must be Justice,” Bran greets him, his voice formal but kind. “When The Antivan recommended you in his absence, I wasn’t picturing someone so handsome.”

His cheeks redden a little at the compliment from someone so politically important and mumbles. “Thank you.”

Setting down his half-drained glass of champagne next to an impressive roll of money, the man pats the bench seat beside him. “Come, sit with me.”

Anders approaches, expecting to sit beside the man, but is surprised at the last moment when he’s pulled into his lap. His legs are maneuvered to one side so they can see each other, with one of Bran’s arms wrapped around his waist and the other settled across Anders’ thighs. It’s almost too much contact in too little time, and Anders’ gut reaction is to put space between them, but then he remembers Alistair’s advice. He takes a few silent and steadying breaths and thinks about the tips.

“My name is Bran Cavin,” the seneschal says with an unexpected modesty coming from a politician. “I like to get to know my dancers on a personal level, so please, tell me about yourself.”

‘ _So this is what Alistair said about chatting,_ ’ Anders thinks. He pauses to consider what he should tell the man. There is a reason dancers have stage names, to keep their identity and outside lives as private as they can. Of course, it also helps warding off potential creeps and stalkers, with which Anders is very lucky to not have any experience.

“I’m a student.” It’s not exactly a lie, but the best cover stories run parallel to the truth.

“Oh, like Alistair?”

Anders nods, even though he doesn’t know if this is true He files the information away to ask Alistair about it later. Though he’s been working with them for two months, Anders still knows very little about the private lives of his coworkers.

“I’m sure you are aware of what I do, so we’ll skip that. Other than studying, what do you like to do?”

“Skydiving.”

Bran chuckles, patting the side of his thigh. Anders finds himself laughing too, relaxing considerably as they continue to talk. Though Seneschal Bran is a person with a rather positive reputation in the public eye, Anders had his doubts about him when he first walked into the room. But, so far, the man is already much less creepy than a lot of the clients on the main floor.

“As much as I like entertaining that thought, I know that one’s a lie.”

“I don’t have a lot of spare time, but I like—“ Anders begins his half-lie, but is interrupted by a third person entering the room.

Hawke, donning the same jacket that kept Anders warm just over a week ago, steps through the curtains. The man’s an image of professionalism with his crisp-pressed shirt and tie and brushed hair, quite different to what Anders usually sees by the end of the evening.

Suddenly, Anders is very painfully aware of his position perched on the man’s lap and all the points where their bodies touch. His cheeks shouldn’t heat up like they do; Hawke has seen him dance for countless clients, so this should be no different. 

But it is. This arrangement is much more personal and uncomfortably intimate.

His employer greets them both formally, his eyes mostly settling on Anders, making his skin prickle at the unexpected attention. “Seneschal Bran, are you enjoying yourself?”

“Indeed, Ser Hawke,” he replies, patting Anders on the leg again without noticing how he’s frozen in place. “I’m just getting to know Justice.”

Finally, Hawke tears his eyes away and suddenly air rushes back into Anders’ lungs, as if he were released from a hold. “Is there anything I can do for you? More champagne?”

“I think that would be a fine idea, Ser Hawke. Another bottle of Dom Perignon, please.”

“Of course.” His employer nods curtly, sparing one last glance at Anders before excusing himself from the room.

“So, as you were saying?”

Blinking, it takes a moment for him to remember the topic of their conversation before the interruption. 

“Ah… Hm, I like to go and see movies.” 

Again, it’s not a complete lie, but he chooses to leave out the fact that he hasn’t had the time to see a movie in theatres in almost a year.

“Oh, is that so?” Bran replies, his attention remains on him despite Hawke returning with a bottle of champagne. It takes Anders quite a deal of effort to keep his eyes trained on the man instead of Hawke’s sudden presence.

“That’ll be all for now, thank you,” Bran says, waving him away. He encircles Anders in his arms, reaching around him to pour himself a drink. It’s only when he pours a second glass and passes it to Anders that he feels uncertain. “Drink with me.”

It’s not the first time a client has offered to buy Anders a drink, but it’s the first time an elite client has done so. Though dancing and drinking is one of the top mistakes a dancer can make, he’s incredibly unsure about how to respond. If it were anyone else, anyone from the main floor, Anders would refuse in an instant. But here, in the VIP room where the rules are different, he hesitates.

“Sure,” Anders replies after a pause. Champagne isn’t the worst thing he could be drinking right now, and he can at least sip on it slowly. One glass over the course of an evening will not ruin him, and declining such an offer seems rude. They toast each other, glasses carefully clinking together before they drink. It’s refreshing, and he has never had the chance to drink something as expensive as Dom Perignon.

For the next hour or so, they sip champagne and talk. Seneschal Bran does most of the talking, telling him Kirkwall has been chosen to be the filming location of the newest _Hard in Hightown_ adaptation and how it’ll help the city’s economy. The man continues to speak about other things—the city, events he’s planned, what his life at home is like.

It isn’t the most stimulating conversation, so Anders finds himself mostly nodding, entertaining him and stroking his ego when prompted. Bran brightens with satisfaction whenever Anders asks about his life, so he doubles his effort and lays the seduction on a little thicker. He wraps an arm around his shoulders, his fingers absently threading through the auburn hair at the nape of his neck. Small and casual physical touches to gain favor that might pay off in the end.

Hawke checks in with them again, and Anders finds himself becoming annoyed with the man’s frequent interruptions. His distracting presence breaks Anders out of his thoughtfully constructed act, which is interfering with his job.

When his employer visits again, just minutes later, he grows suspicious of the man’s recurring appearances. Is this normal? Or is Hawke concerned? Since it’s his first time attending to a VIP client, perhaps his employer is worried that Anders isn’t doing his job, or isn’t doing it the right way.

His smile wavers momentarily, aggravation growing beneath his pleasant expression. Does Hawke really have such little faith in him? Has he not shown his worth as a dancer?

“Well,” Bran begins, snapping him from his doubts. “I think it’s high time for a dance, wouldn’t you say?”

He had hoped that the evening would be spent “chatting” like Alistair suggested, but dancing is what the seneschal is here for. He shouldn’t feel disgruntled about the request, since it’s what puts money in his pocket.

“Of course,” he replies, sliding off the man’s lap. He crosses the room, twisting a dial on the wall. A throbbing sensual beat spills from the room’s hidden speakers. Anders is grateful for how the music returns the confidence that his work persona brings. He no longer feels nervous about being in the VIP room, attending to the seneschal of Kirkwall. Instead, he focuses on making a lasting impression.

Talking is easy, but dancing is where he can close the deal.

He starts slowly, teasing with flashes of skin before he peels his shirt from his shoulders. Bran watches him with eyes that grow ravenous as Anders continues. Soon he’s standing just before him, holding the man’s chin to keep the eye contact that is crucial to his success. Bran’s eyes widen from lust, hypnotized by every move he makes.

With a bold burst of courage, Anders lays a hand on the seneschal’s shoulder, pushing him to lay back. Bran obliges and he smirks at the man becoming putty in his hands. At a deliberate slow and torturous pace, Anders lowers himself onto the man’s lap, hips still moving and gaze still held.

A gasp escapes Bran’s lips, his attention completely enraptured.

‘ _Got you,_ ’ Anders thinks.

“Seneschal—”

“ _Hawke!_ ” Anders snaps, his voice too sharp and loud in the small room. He can’t even bear turning to look at his employer, but only waits for the gentle swish of the curtains barely audible over the music. When he’s sure Hawke is gone, he lets out a long sigh and returns his attention to the client whose lap he currently straddles.

“Strange,” Bran says. “Mr. Hawke does not usually intrude so much.”

“Sorry,” Anders replies, not quite sure who he’s apologizing for. For Hawke’s behavior? For his own?

“Shall we continue?”

The request comes as a welcomed relief. The display could have easily put him out of the seneschal’s good graces, but thankfully the man seems forgiving.

Anders nods. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a massive pain to write, but I couldn't have finished it without the help of drawsshits. This was a rambling mess of repetitive and incomplete sentences before draws' help.


	7. Animals — Maroon 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Halloween at The Bone Pit and everyone gets a little bit festive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian is bad-boy pre-Chantry Sebastian, I feel like I might have fucked up writing him and I’d like to apologize in advance. Also, happy Halloween! And you can find bigger sizes of the separate art on my tumblr.

Autumn is in full swing, though no one would know if they never left Darktown. In all the brighter neighborhoods of Kirkwall, leaves are ablaze with dazzling shades of fire and casting the grey stone city in full color. The cold wind’s teeth have sharpened and Anders has added a scarf and gloves to his daily ensemble to fend off its icy bite.

The moment he steps into the dressing room, a knife whizzes just inches past his nose and collides with the wall. Anders curses Andraste’s name, jerking back just in time to take cover behind the door in case there any more flying in his direction.

“Why are you throwing knives?” he shouts from his hiding spot, refusing to come out until he knew it is safe.

“They won’t harm you!” Zevran replies from inside the room, his voice full of laughter. “They’re rubber, my friend. That’s all.”

At the news, Anders’ gaze drops to the floor where, in fact, a rather fake-looking knife lies. He plucks the harmless toy off the ground, bending the matte grey blade between his hands. He laughs nervously to himself, still trying to calm his rapidly beating heart after believing he was about to be stabbed in the eye.

“So they are,” he says, returning the knife to its owner. “But _why_ do you have them?”

Frowning, Zevran flashes him a look. “For next week, of course.”

“What’s next week?”

“Halloween.”

Anders blinks. “Isn’t that for children?”

“And strippers,” Alistair adds. “Customers love theme nights, and there’s no excuse to skip dressing up for Halloween just because it’s meant for children.”

“I’ll be an assassin this year. Men love all the leather and the sense of danger,” Zevran says, waving a rubber knife around with suspiciously expert precision while the other three are clasped between his fingers. “And so do I.”

“You could be a sexy doctor!” Alistair spins to Anders, eyes lighting up with his brilliant idea. “It would be perfect for you, wouldn’t it?”

“No,” Anders says flatly, crossing his arms. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not besmirching a perfectly reputable profession. _My_ profession.”

“Right.” Alistair pauses for a beat, humming as he thinks. “How about a sexy nurse?”

“No!”

“How about—”

“I think he can figure out his costume by himself,” Sebastian interrupts, not bothering to hide how annoyed he is by the exchange. He sits at his station, brushing his hair back away from his face with a comb. He stares at Alistair with sharp blue eyes until the younger man relents with a nod. “He has a week to figure out what he’s going to be. That’s plenty of time.”

“Just make sure to consult with us before you decide, so no one wears the same thing,” Zevran adds, stashing his rubber knives in the bottom drawer of his station. “A few years back we had two cowboys, which led to a competition that was a little less than friendly.”

Alistair’s expression brightens at the memory. “Hey! I thought the shoot-off was loads of fun!”

“Oh, it was,” Zevran confirms. “But I think poor Cullen would beg to differ.”

During lecture the next morning, Anders browses the internet for ideas during his many moments of distraction. He has to tilt his laptop screen away from any prying eyes, anxious about what his classmates would say or think if they saw him looking at the search results for ‘sexy costumes for men.’

As the week goes on, Anders gets more and more busy, nearly buried alive by his work. The clinic is overrun by people suffering from the season’s strain of influenza—which he thanks the Maker he’s already overcome. His neuroscience professor assigns almost a dozen case studies to have memorized by the end of the week. He becomes so occupied with keeping up with coursework, the clinic, and his shifts that he even forgets to eat a few times.

So when Anders enters the dressing room on Halloween, it immediately dawns on him that he’s forgotten much more than a few meals.

“ _Oh no_ ,” he whispers with dread, frozen in the doorway.

“Ah, there you are!”

Zevran is already completely dressed in the black leather he boasted about the week before. A surprisingly well-constructed hip holster is draped over tight shiny briefs, with the four rubber knives sheathed on one thigh. Along with tall matching boots, the last piece of his outfit is a thick belt slung from one shoulder, crossing his bare chest. The ensemble goes well with his tattoos, creating a rather devastating look.

“Hello,” Anders replies with what he hopes is nonchalance, unceremoniously dumping his bag on his counter before plopping down on the stool.

“So?” Alistair says eagerly from somewhere behind him. “What’s your costume?”

“I—” he begins nervously before dropping his head into his hands. “I forgot.”

“Ah.”

“That’s alright,” Zevran says, patting him on the shoulder in sympathy. “You can wear the backup costume.”

“Backup?” Anders eyes him warily.

“Of course. You are certainly not the first dancer at The Bone Pit to forget their costume,” Zevran says, turning towards the door. “I’ll go fetch it from the storage closet for you. Hopefully it hasn’t gathered too much dust.”

As the elf leaves, Anders turns toward the rest of the dancers. Sebastian is also dressed in all black, except for a small white patch at his throat. He’s a Chantry Brother—though one wearing tight shorts and a shirt that is nearly thin enough to see through—and it’s oddly fitting of the man.

To his surprise, Alistair is well-covered by his costume. He’s dressed as a fairytale prince, complete with a satin sash and puffy sleeves. There’s not one inch of skin, save for his hands, that is visible below the collar.

“That’s going to be a lot to take off,” Anders comments, puzzled.

Sebastian groans. “Don’t tell him that! Now he’s going to—”

Before the man can finish, Alistair grins, gripping the waistband of his pants and tearing them from his legs. The tell-tale sound of a dozen metal snaps click apart as the fabric splits down the side seams, revealing gold briefs.

“That’s the third time today...” Sebastian says, rolling his eyes with a sigh.

Laughing, Alistair gathers up the pieces of his pants from the floor and starts snapping them together again. Eyes grazing across the rest of the man’s outfit, Anders wonders how many more snaps are hidden beneath the cotton, satin, and gold braid.

Glancing around the room, he notes that there are a few dancers missing. “Where’s Fenris?”

“Taking the night off,” Sebastian replies simply.

“Which is a real shame,” Alistair adds, pulling his pants back on and smoothing the fabric against his thighs. “I was looking forward to seeing his pumpkin panties from last year.”

The image of a serious athlete like Fenris hanging off a pole while wearing pumpkin themed apparel—or even panties in general—causes Anders to snort in laughter. It’s an absurd picture, but he also agrees with Alistair that it would have been very entertaining to see.

“But nevermind him. Has anyone seen Cullen?” Sebastian asks, steepling his fingers as the tiniest smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. While Anders doesn’t know him well, he can tell the man is scheming just by his tone. “I’m keen to see him in his costume.”

Anders’ eyes narrow, wondering why Sebastian is so eager to see Cullen of all people. The two had never particularly been close, nor gotten along very well in the few exchanges that he’s witnessed.

Almost as if he was a demon being summoned, Cullen appears in the doorway just moments after being mentioned. Merely the sight of him makes all three of them burst into uncontrollable laughter.

He’s dressed as the tragically cliche ‘sexy bunny girl,’ but somehow he wears it well. Tall white bunny ears poke out from his blond hair, as well as a white puffy tail attached just above the curve of his rear. The majority of his torso is covered with a mockery of a deep red satin corset, and two fishnet stockings reach halfway up his well-muscled thighs.

Cullen gives a deathly glare at the two before turning to address Anders, holding a hand up between them. “Before you say anything, I lost a bet.”

“And what a bet it was,” Sebastian says, his self-gratified smile growing without a hint of restraint. “You should really learn to be better at Wicked Grace. I drank considerably more ale than you and I still won every round.”

“Is that a _woman’s costume_?” Alistair asks, jabbing a finger at him while barking in laughter. “It must be the biggest size they had!”

“They don’t sell rabbit costumes for men,” Cullen mutters, the resentment in his voice barely disguised. When they continue to laugh, he grumbles. “—Void take you, assholes...”

“A bet’s a bet,” Sebastian replies. “I'm pleased to see you’re a man of your word.”

Though he’s amused, Anders gives the poor man a crooked smile of sympathy. Cullen simply huffs and turns away, flinching when he sees himself in the large mirror.

“I found the backup costume,” Zevran’s voice calls from the hallway before he breezes in, carrying a worn cardboard box under one arm. The elf pauses mid-step at the sight of Cullen, his eyes dragging up and down his body. “I would have never guessed you were into—”

Cullen’s jaw drops open. “I don’t—I’m not—!”

“He lost a bet,” Anders quickly fills in for the stuttering man. He’ll never be able to understand how this flustered blushing Cullen is the same man as the confident and provocative Commander on stage.

“Ah, I see. Well, I think you make a cute bunny,” Zevran says, brushing past him to set the box atop Anders’ counter. “And you’ll be in good company tonight since Anders will be…” he continues, rummaging through the contents of the box. He moves too fast to see, pushing something onto Anders’ head. “A kitten.”

Out of reflex, Anders reaches above his head. Fingers brush against soft fur, grasping and feeling out the shape of pointed ears. He frowns, not knowing what to make of the costume just yet. Anders loves cats, even though he’s not the best owner to Ser Pounce-A-Lot with the heavy load of his schedule. The poor noble beast deserves better...

But a sexy cat costume? It’s terribly cliche, and not to mention a little embarrassing.

“And here’s your tail,” Zevran adds, pushing the length of fake black fur into his hand. It has a small metal clip attached to one end, no doubt to be attached to the back of his shorts. “And a collar with a bell. But if you ask me, the best part of the costume are _these_.”

Anders glares at the last things to be pulled from the box. They’re thick furry mittens, shaped like paws with pink pads on one side. 

“Kitten mittens,” Anders says in disbelief, cringing at the unintended rhyme. 

Though Cullen’s costume is considerably more embarrassing than this, Anders can’t help feeeling ridiculous when he finally dons the ears, collar, tail, and mittens at the same time. He supposes it could be worse—the back-up costume could have been a jester or something with a skirt and bra.

There’s a surprising amount of clients on the floor, all there to see the dancers in their costumes. He’s still nervous in front of all of those watchful eyes, but remarkably less so compared to when he first began dancing at The Bone Pit. If anything, he’s more embarrassed about his cat accessories and the thin black whiskers drawn on his face, courtesy of Alistair.

He can only stand wearing the paw mittens for the first twenty minutes before asking Merrill to stash them behind the bar. And though he no longer has them, he still playfully paws at clients like an inquisitive and mischievous cat. Customers seem to be thrilled by it, and Anders finds that tips are definitely higher than normal.

There’s a burst of hollering and applause, and Anders turns just in time to see Alistair’s infamous pants flutter to the ground. The man looks so pleased with himself, arms stretched out as he basks in the glory of all the attention, tips, and his ingenious costume.

Between clients, Anders takes the opportunity to look around the main floor. Zevran has taken up residence on a client’s lap, tracing the edge of his dull rubber knife along the man’s jaw as they chat about Maker-knows-what. Merrill serves the man a drink from the full tray that rests precariously on her arm. She looks charming in her pirate costume and lace-trimmed tricorn, even if practicality has dampened the effect. The matching eyepatch remains on her forehead and she keeps her flowing sleeves rolled up to the elbows. She smiles warmly at Anders before spinning on her heel to serve the rest of the orders.

The sight of the condensation building on the side of the glass makes Anders pause. He licks his lips, noticing his mouth feels dry. He glances at the clock just above the public entrance and figures it isn’t too early to take a short break.

He makes his way to the bar for some water, shaking his head to two clients trying to wave him over. When he sees who is behind the bar, he falters. Hawke has his back turned, selecting a few bottles of liquor of the highest shelf with his long reach. Suddenly, Anders is feeling too conscious about his feline apparel, despite knowing he has probably seen him already.

“Hawke,” he greets, pushing aside any feelings of embarrassment in favor of the promise of refreshment. 

When his employer turns around, Anders’ eyes are immediately drawn up to the top of the man’s head. Hawke is wearing chocolate-brown dog ears, one sticks straight up while the other flops over. He wasn’t expecting to see Hawke wearing anything for the occasion and finds himself staring.

Until he notices Hawke is staring right back. 

“Looks like someone forgot their costume.” The man grins at him, already filling up a glass with ice and water without even being asked.

Anders leans on his elbow, nodding.

“There’s always one who forgets every year,” Hawke comments, nudging the glass across the counter.

He sips the water slowly, biding his time before having to leave this momentary peace to return to the masses. There are so many distractions around him—the loud strobing music, the flashing lights of Alistair’s solo performance—but his attention is drawn back to the towering man behind the bar.

Other than the ears, Hawke is dressed in regular clothes—or, at least, the clothes Anders is used to seeing him in. His white shirt is a little more loose than his other shirts, and Anders silently laments the fact he can’t see the outlines of the man’s muscles or admire how the fabric stretches across his broad chest. However, the tailored black waistcoat that hugs his waist more than makes up for it. Having gone without a tie, Anders can just barely see the gold chains that curve around the sturdy column of his neck and a small sliver of skin exposed from undoing the top two buttons.

It’s nearly impossible for Anders to look away.

“Do you always dress up?” Hawke gives him a puzzled look. “The ears, I mean.”

Hawke’s hand flies up to the headband, fingers brushing against the fur like he was remembering they were even there.

“No,” the man admits with a sigh, pushing his fingers past the ears and through his hair. “This is the first time. Zevran came to my office and gave me these, demanding that I look ‘festive’ tonight. He’s compared me to a mabari before, but I didn’t think he was serious…”

Anders curses quietly, covering it up with a small fake cough. Zevran is even more devious than he initially thought, plotting such a covert plan in such little time. He should really have a discussion with the antivan. Life is already complicated without his meddling, and all he wants to do is nurse his crush on his employer in peace. He’s far too busy as it is without having to deal with prying.

Merrill darts around the bar, setting her now empty tray on the back counter before quickly stepping up to Hawke’s side. She taps on him on the shoulder with dainty fingertip painted black, and he immediately leans to better listen to the much shorter woman. She whispers in his ear, and Hawke listens intently before giving her a silent dismissing nod.

“As much as I enjoy talking _purrsonally_ with you,” Hawke starts after Merrill returns to pouring drinks, leering at him with a self-gratifying smile. “I have to get one of our distinguished guests more champagne.” He glances at the expensive watch on his wrist. “Shouldn’t you be _prowling_ for your next dance?”

“You’re awful,” Anders replies, but his words have no bite.

“Don’t you mean _claw-ful_?” Hawke replies with a wink, and Anders covers his face with his hand to keep himself from grinning. His boss says nothing for a moment, and when Anders uncovers his eyes, he’s nearly jumps out of his skin. 

Bracing his hands on either side of Anders, Hawke becomes a looming presence that is _too close, too close, too close_. Anders can smell the faint notes of the man’s woody aftershave and see golden flecks in the brown of his eyes. He’s left needy and wanting for so many things, but mainly for nothing more than to lose himself in the enormous entity that is Hawke.

His eyes fixate on the man’s lips that are a dangerously near his own. Heart furiously beating against his ribs, Anders’ brain can’t process what is happening. He’s frozen in place, captive in his own body and mind as he feels trapped beneath Hawke’s dominating presence.

Thus he’s caught completely off-guard when Hawke bares his teeth and lets out a _growl_. The feral and low-pitched rumble can be felt deep in his bones, bringing a rush of heat to his cheeks and a sudden stir of interest in his cock. Frozen by both excitement and humiliation, Anders stares wide-eyed at Hawke, whose eyes light up as he smiles wider.

“ _Scat, cat!_ ”

Anders instantly seizes control of his body, darting away from the bar with a deep blush across his face—startled and a little turned on. Just over the music, he can hear Hawke trying to hold back his sweet, deep laughter as he stores Anders’ drink below the bar.

“ _Sweet M-maker_ …” Anders lets out a shuddering groan when finally out of sight, desperately trying to collect the pieces of himself that scattered at the simple sound of a growl escaping Hawke’s lips. “That man…”

  
  



	8. Lights Down Low - Bei Maejor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders knew it might happen one day, but he could never be prepared to see someone familiar walk into The Bone Pit.

Anders has never particularly cared for Mondays. Business is generally slow and tips are much lower than he’d like them to be. The Bone Pit is more empty than not, with clients seated far apart from each other across the floor. Most of them are regulars, the ever-loyal strip club attendees who probably don’t do much else than work all day to pay for expensive alcohol and dances all night.

It’s only mid-way through the evening and Anders has already danced on stage twice—both because he’s bored and making up for the fact that they’re missing a dancer. Alistair called out of work earlier, confirming everyone’s growing suspicions. He constantly wrinkled his reddening nose and cleared his sore throat just the day before. When Anders mentioned the likely possibility of the flu, Alistair stared at him as if he suggested the man has the Blight.

Since the club isn’t busy, the small crowd of people arriving through the main door together are impossible not to notice. Two of the six are women, which is surprising but not entirely unseen, and instantly causes Anders to begin questioning if it's a birthday or bachelor party.

Or retirement party. That one was strange.

The group is boisterous, talking and laughing loudly and drawing the attention from many across the room even over the music. Like a gracious and professional host, Hawke greets them at the entrance, listening and nodding before showing them to an uncrowded corner of the main floor.

‘ _Definitely a birthday party,_ ’ Anders thinks, since most bachelor parties are willing to pay the expense to get the VIP treatment for the big occasion.

Merrill immediately flutters over to take their drink order, her glossy smile widening when she sees the elves in the group—a rarity in her life since arriving in Kirkwall, as she’s explained. ‘There are so many humans here,’ she once told him before the club opened one night. ‘Not as many elves as I am used to, living up in the mountains.’ She lingers a little longer with the group than usual, hugging her round black tray to her chest as she listens and speaks with them. As the only dancer not currently engaged with a client, Anders waits for her to finish before walking toward the newcomers.

The party’s chatter has yet to slow down since they arrived, all seemingly having a good time in each other’s company. While he approaches, one of the people catches Anders’ eye with familiarity that he cannot quite place.

It’s not a regular because he would most definitely recognize them. He’s been working at The Bone Pit for too long not to know the names and faces of all of the customers who frequent the club. But there is something striking about one of the men—the angles of his profile and black hair that brushes the top of his shoulders.

And like a lightning bolt to the heart, Anders freezes in horror.

‘ _Nathaniel!_ ’ The name nearly comes out as a shout, but thankfully catches it just before he voices it.

Just as one member of the group’s attention flicks to him, his feet stumble into motion. He darts toward the bar at a speed he didn’t know he was capable of, immediately ducking and crouching behind it.

Though safely out of sight, his heart still beats wildly against his chest and he drags a hand down his face. The idea that someone from ‘outside’ might see him at the club has always been a nagging concern in the back of his mind, but he didn’t think it would be so soon. Nor did he think it would be a fellow student in his doctoral program.

What if Nathaniel saw him?

Or worse: what if Nathaniel saw him and _tells_ someone?

Anders closes his eyes and feels the blood drain from his face, his heart being overtaken with dread and fear. This could ruin him. His program director might deem it inappropriate conduct and eject him from the program. His life as a medical professional could be over before he holds the diploma in his hands.

His eyes snap open when he hears the sound of a throat clearing somewhere above him, interrupting his panic. The black leather shoes beside him instantly draw his attention. Though he knows who they belong to, Anders can’t stop his gaze from slowly trailing up familiar long legs and broad chest before settling on Hawke’s face. The man practically towers over him, mountainous in his stature and his height is even more impressive from this odd, new angle. 

Hawke raises an eyebrow at him, casually leaning on the counter. 

“Scared of birthday parties?” he asks casually, like it isn’t ridiculous that Anders is on the floor hiding behind the bar.

“Not of birthday parties in general,” Anders replies sheepishly, rising just enough to peek over the counter like a poorly-trained spy. “But that one, specifically. I go to school with one of them.”

“Ah,” Hawke replies, returning his gaze to the group. “They’ll probably be here for a few hours, at least.”

Anders groans, turning and slumping down against the cupboards that house a hundred glasses. He knows from experience that parties can take a long time, sometimes even all night until Hawke kicks them out after closing. He drops his head into his hands, palms pressing into his eyes as he tries to work away a building headache.

“Do you plan on staying down there the whole night?” Hawke asks, his voice suddenly much easier to hear. When Anders tears his hands from his eyes, he sees that the man has crouched alongside him. “You can go home, if you’d like.”

“That would leave you with four—no, three dancers,” Anders says, remembering that Fenris does not actually count as one. “Plus, I kind of need the money…”

Hawke presses his lips into a thin line, not arguing with either point. After a moment, he grasps Anders’ shoulder with a large hand, gaining his full attention with just a simple touch.

“Wait here,” Hawke says before rising to his feet and walking past him like a man on a mission.

With his employer is gone, Anders sits and fails at keeping himself from panicking. He could possibly be stuck in hiding for the rest of the shift, forfeiting the tips he could have earned and looking like a fool in the process. The distance between the bar and the nearest door to anywhere is too great, and it’s too risky to try to make a break for it. Not to mention, Nathaniel could have already seen him and the damage could already be done.

Hawke returns a few long minutes later, crouching to his level again. “I spoke with Sebastian. He’s willing to switch places, if that works with you.”

The offer is suspiciously generous of Sebastian, but has no real downside—higher tips and no risk of seeing his classmate unless they somehow pull together enough money for the VIP room. Seeing as they’re young, most likely all students themselves, the chances of that happening are low.

Looking back to Hawke, who is patiently waiting for an answer, Anders nods.

“Good,” his employer replies, standing to look over the counter. He signals to someone with a flick of his hand, then extends it to help Anders to his feet. His knees wobble, his legs tired and asleep from crouching for so long. Hawke grips his hand, steadying him, but doesn’t let go.

‘ _We’re not holding hands._ ’ he reminds himself, even though he still feels warm fingers entwined with his. Anders feels his cheeks burn at the thought. ‘ _We’re not._ ’

They walk together, hand still in hand, toward the curtains. Hawke tucks him against his side, using his enormous bulk to hide Anders from the majority of the room. It seems to work, and while he’s anxious about the situation, he can’t help but to think about how close Hawke’s body is to his and how he holds his hand firm and steady.

Though he should keep his attention forward, Anders risks a glance over his shoulder. Zevran is dancing over one of the people as the others cheer, and it’s so out of character for him that it’s obviously a distraction. The elf looks over the party’s heads for only a second, winking at Anders.

“Hawke tells me you’re in a spot of trouble,” Sebastian whispers in his ear when they reach the entrance to the VIP room, eyeing him and smiling. “You owe me,” he continues, and Anders doesn’t want to know what he’ll end up doing to pay the man back for such a favor.

The few high-profile clients don’t immediately notice the sudden change of dancers and ignore the way he lets out a relieved sigh when finally past the curtains. Seneschal Bran is delighted to see him, and Anders couldn’t have been more lucky in such an unlucky situation.

The rest of the evening passes without a sight of the birthday party or Nathaniel, but his classmate looks a little worse for wear during lecture the next morning. 

Though usually a studious and serious man, Nathaniel sits near the back with a forty-four ounce cup of iced coffee in his hand and grey bags under his eyes. He doesn’t give Anders any sort of knowing look and doesn’t treat him any differently during their dissection lab together. In fact, the man looks incredibly hungover and Anders finds an embarrassing amount of satisfaction in that.

While it was too close for comfort and he hopes it never happens again, Anders is grateful for how the people—his coworkers and his employer—at The Bone Pit have his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short (and rather boring) chapter. Actual Handers comes next, like… legitimate Handers. Not diet Handers. The real deal.


	9. What’s It Gonna Be — Janet Jackson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders needs to ask for some time off to study for exams, but Hawke has a question of his own.

When Anders stumbles into the dressing room with the other dancers at the end of the night, he feels a wave of relief wash over him. The night has been long, and while his wallet is gorging with the results of his efforts, he’s thankful it’s finally over. The weekend shifts are always busy, with no chance to be idle for even a moment. 

Most likely just as exhausted as he feels, Zevran and Sebastian speed through changing and make it out the door in a matter of minutes, with Cullen following quickly after.

In no hurry to leave, Alistair sits hunched at his station with his eyes trained on his phone’s screen, biting his lip as he slowly types with both thumbs. Other than he and Anders, the only other dancer left in the room is Fenris, who is busy lacing up weather-worn boots up his calves and tucking baggy black sweatpants into them.

“So Fenris,” Anders begins, deciding to take the rare opportunity to talk with his elusive coworker. The elf’s brow creases as he’s addressed, large green eyes turning to him. “Have you been working here long?”

A pause. “Two years. Why?”

“Just thought I’d try to get to know you,” Anders replies simply, curious as to why his tone is a little defensive. “You always seem to disappear after your dance.”

“ _Performance,_ ” Fenris corrects. “And I don’t like being here any longer than I must.”

“Why is that?”

The elf frowns, returning his attention to tying his boots. Anders waits, watching long slender fingers laced with white tattoos form double-knots in the laces. “People tend to want more from me if I stay.”

The answer makes him remember Zevran telling him of his aversion to touch during his first official shift at The Bone Pit. His medical training makes him want to ask about it, but he quickly reminds himself that Fenris isn’t some puzzle to figure out. Instead, he shoves those invasive questions down and opts for another, more casual sort.

“Do you have another job during the day?”

“I’m a freelance translator,” Fenris replies simply, telling him no more than necessary. “You’re a student?”

“In medical school, yes.” The elf hums in contemplation. “What?”

“You must be busy.”

Anders agrees, thinking about his full schedule that currently takes up every waking moment of his life. “I do have semester examinations coming up very soon. I’m considering asking for a week off to study but—”

“You need a _week_ to do that?” Alistair interrupts, looking up from his phone. Though he seemed distracted, the man has obviously been following their conversation carefully. 

“Yeah, if I want to do well.”

“I don’t think I’ve studied more than a _day_ for an exam,” he mumbles, shaking his head in disbelief. “But a _week?_ Sweet mother of Andraste… that’s a long time.”

Anders shrugs. “Do you think I could get that much time off?”

“Oh, I’m _sure_ of it,” Alistair assures him. The way he grins makes Anders suspicious, but he tries his best to ignore it. “And the earlier you ask, the better. In fact, I think Hawke is up in his office right now. You should go talk to him!”

Despite the encouragement, Anders hesitates. He could wait and ask before work begins tomorrow, or he could avoid speaking with Hawke entirely and try to fit studying into his usual schedule. He frowns at the latter choice, which sounds like the worst decision he could make—for both his sanity and his grade point average.

“You won’t get any time off if you don’t ask,” Alistair reminds him, snapping him out of his thoughts. When Anders doesn’t move, he huffs and rolls his eyes. “So, what are you waiting for? Go on, then.” 

Relenting to the man’s pushing, Anders pulls on his jacket and slings his bag over his shoulder, bidding the other two dancers goodbye before making his way toward the business offices.

 

 

◆

 

 

“So, Hawke,” Isabela begins, trailing into the office just behind him. Her voice playfully dips on his name as she slides into his line of vision, placing a hand on her hip while blocking his way. “How’s your favorite dancer been doing?”

It’s not the first time she’s taunted him about his feelings toward Anders—in fact, she does it almost daily. After being friends with her for so many years, he's learned the best response is none at all.

Pursing his lips, Hawke gives her a flat stare while he tears the loose tie from his neck and blindly tosses it aside. 

“Hey, I’m just asking,” she says, holding her hands up in feigned innocence even while smiling. She hops up to sit on the desk in Hawke’s office, her shimmering black dress rides up her thighs when she crosses her legs. “Seems to have settled in well, which is good.”

He shrugs, not giving her any reaction to work with. From his experience, it only takes a few moments of silence for her to move on to a more entertaining topic.

“Have you done anything about him yet?”

Narrowing his eyes at her, Hawke frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” Isabela says, holding the last syllable until it lingers. She pinches two fingers together into a circle, then uses her other hand to push a finger through it. When he says nothing, she rolls her eyes and groans. “Ugh. Have you fucked him yet?”

“What? No!” Hawke feels his face redden slightly and turns away in an attempt to hide it. Instead he reads the cabinet drawer labels in search for something to busy himself with.

But well… It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it before. Many times. At night.

“Look at you, blushing like the innocent schoolboy we all know you aren’t,” she continues to tease, laughing at him. “But you need to get on that!”

“He’s my employee,” he says, grumbling.

“So what? We’ve been over this. You obviously feel more than just infatuation with him. Honestly, it’s been clear since the beginning.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“You are,” she confirms with a slight nod. “But good news: so is he.”

Hawke is silent for a few moments. That couldn’t be true. Though they haven’t gotten to speak as much as he’d like, he hasn’t noticed Anders acting any differently. If anything, Anders treats him with the perfect level of professionalism—nothing more, nothing less. On the other hand, Isabela has no reason to lie to him. His mind thinks back to all the gentle smiles and witty words exchanged, the subtle casual touches that meant more to him than they should. Anders has never outright rejected them...

“Really?” he asks at last.

“Yes!” his friend exclaims, punching him lightly on the shoulder. “So don’t let him get away!”

“I’ll… I’ll think about it,” he promises, as if he hasn’t already been thinking about it since the moment he met the man during the interview. When not preoccupied with more pressing matters, the thought of asking Anders on a date is often a constant warring battle in his mind.

All this aside, it’s especially alarming that his feelings toward one of his employees is so apparent to those around him. Isabela has always been able to see right through him, but she’s never described him as ‘obvious’ before. Are his other employees able to tell as easily? Or worse, does Anders know? 

That would be tremendously awkward, if not downright creepy.

“Anywho,” she says after a long pause, finally letting the topic wither and die. He can feel her copper eyes watch him curiously as he searches through his filing cabinet for last month’s statements. “I took the long route around the Docks today. Have you seen what they’re building on the south side?”

Hawke breathes a small sigh of relief, thankful for the distracting change in topic. “No, I haven’t.”

“It’s another Blooming Rose—”

“Ugh,” Hawke groans immediately upon hearing the name. The Blooming Rose is a nationally-known chain of exotic dance clubs, with cheesy decor and horrible service. There is already one in Hightown, which was far enough not to do them any financial harm, but a second one might dampen their business a little.

“It’s fucking hideous,” Isabela continues, sliding off the desk. She runs her palms across her dress in an attempt to press out the wrinkles. “It makes us look classy—”

“We _are_ classy,” Hawke argues. He’s worked tirelessly to make The Bone Pit respectable.

“—with its fancy neon sign you can see from a mile away and big showy lanterns. _Red_ lanterns, can you believe it? It’s like they’re trying to get federally investigated for prostitution. The building isn’t even complete and they already have girls outside promoting it.”

Hawke hums, finding the file he was looking for. The previous month’s intake was lower than usual, but not low enough to be worrisome. “We’ll have to wait and see how this might affect us.”

“‘Affect _us_ ’? You mean _me,_ ” Isabela says with a dry laugh, dropping down into his leather chair and making herself at home. She kicks up her feet, the heels of her tall boots clacking against the surface. “It only has female dancers, so it doesn’t really clash with your interests.”

“Hey,” he says her, swatting her shoulder with the folder. “Don’t put your feet on my desk.”

The woman rolls her eyes but still slides her legs off and settles her feet on the ground. “I wonder if the Coterie will try to get in on their business. They paid me a little visit last week—”

That catches Hawke’s attention. “What? Why didn’t you call me?”

“With two Coterie men breathing down my neck, you expect me to call you? And do what, exactly? Wait for you to come save me? _Please._ ”

Closing his eyes and sighing, Hawke knows she’s right. The woman can certainly handle herself, and has been doing so for years, but the Coterie showing up is still never a good sign.

“What happened?” he asks calmly.

“They came and tried intimidate me, of course. Wanted protection money and a cut of the profits, the usual demands of the sewer rats.”

“How did they even get in?”

“If you’re trying to insinuate that I let them in—”

“You know I wasn’t—”

“It was after Aveline went home.” 

Which makes sense. The woman of steel would have had them out on their asses before they had the chance to even utter a word. They’re getting smarter, learning when is the best time to make their visits. Perhaps he should be expecting the same two on his doorstep sometime soon.

“So anyway,” Isabela says with measured nonchalance, folding her hands behind her head as she sprawls out in his space. After stretching her long legs, she crosses them and rests her feet on the edge of the desk. Hawke’s lip twitches when a small stack of papers goes flying when she bumps them. “I called Varric, naturally, and he assures me I’ll never see those two again.”

“It pays to have a friend in high places,” Hawke says, catching the fluttering pages and depositing them further away from the woman’s feet. When he sees the dirty soles of her boots, he grimaces.

“Come on,” Hawke says, tapping the leather at the toe of her shoes. “Feet down... In fact, just get out of my chair.”

“But my feet hu-urt,” Isabela whines, though the corners of her lips still turn up in a smile. “You wouldn’t make a woman with sore feet stand, would you?”

“There are two perfectly good chairs over there,” he replies, pointing to the two chairs set aside for meeting with guests.

“If they’re so comfortable, then why don’t you sit in one and let a poor woman rest?”

But Hawke is already moving, firmly wrapping one hand around her ankle and lifting it from the desk. He has both size and strength on her, and on more than one occasion, he’s had to lift or wrestle his best friend out of countless ridiculous situations. Usually involving a bar and intoxicated men who are pleading to keep their faces—and other parts of their bodies—intact.

“Shouldn’t you be a gentleman?” She shouts, kicking her captured leg in an attempt to break free. When she starts swinging the other, Hawke catches that one too.

“You have your own chair in your own office!” He replies with equal volume, pulling her ankles enough to drag the rolling chair a few inches across the floor. He has one wriggling ankle in each hand, he stands between her legs as he tries to wrestle her from the chair. “Why do we always meet in mine?”

“Yours has this comfortable chair...”

He tugs at her again, ignoring how her dress rides further up her thighs. Having lived together in college, Isabela couldn’t care less and only tries to kick out of his tightening grasp. She slams a fist into the inside of his elbow, and he hisses as his arm bows from the blow. Though most people would underestimate her, Hawke knows that Isabela is much stronger than she looks. He still doesn’t let go, his grip like a vice. They both know the argument is completely childish, but it doesn’t stop him from trying to wrestle her from the chair. 

“ _Hey!_ Be gentle—or rather don’t, I like it rough!”

In the all the commotion, he doesn’t hear the door squeak open. It’s only when Isabela stills and her eyes widen at the door that he looks over his shoulder.

Anders, dressed in his street clothes with his bag hanging from his elbow, stands frozen at the door. 

The way Anders’ expression changes from surprised to stricken makes Hawke pause to consider what things might look like. He looks down at his hands, still holding the woman’s no longer flailing legs, and how he stands between them to hover over her.

“I—” Anders begins, taking a moment. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

_‘Andraste’s tits!’_ he thinks, his heartbeat skipping. “Wait—”

“I’m sorry,” the other man says before dashing down the hall, the door swinging shut with a soft click.

“Fuck!” Hawke tosses his head back and swears again. “He probably thinks—”

“Go after him, you asshole!” Isabela shouts, taking advantage of his loose grip and presses the flat of her foot against his chest, shoving him toward the door. “Go!”

Hawke instantly releases her and sets into motion, darting toward the stairs and takes them two at a time. The front door is just closing as he reaches the bottom, and he can see just a flash of the green of Anders’ coat before it swings shut. Heart beating rapidly, he closes the distance of the main floor in long, ground-swallowing strides.

“Wait!”

Anders is almost to his car by the time he reaches him, catching the man by his wrist. The blond spins around, and Hawke sees the gathering wetness growing at the corner of his eyes.

“Wait, please—” Hawke huffs, his chest heaving slightly as he catches his breath. Letting his arm go limp, Anders stays silent and watches Hawke with those soulful honey eyes that are lit by the single streetlamp. Clearing his throat, Hawke tries again. “That wasn’t… It’s not what it looked like.”

When the man just peers at him, Hawke lets out a frustrated huff, raking his other hand through his hair. What is he supposed to say? _‘Sorry you walked in on something that looks like something else and for some reason I feel the need to explain it?’_ Or maybe he shouldn’t have even chased after the man at all and left everything to fate.

Anders frowns, pulling his jacket closer to protect him from the chilling breeze. His eyes dart nervously around the empty lot before settling back on him. “Why are you out here, Hawke?”

Sighing at the question that sounds more like an accusation, Hawke takes a deep and steadying breath. There are a million things that could go wrong at this moment, with almost all of them ending in disaster. The question hangs on the tip of his tongue, begging to be let go. He knows he needs to do this now, at this very moment, or he’s resigning himself to pining after this man for the rest of his life.

He lets his hand slide down the man’s wrist, threading their cold fingers together. “I wanted to know if you’d like to go out sometime.”

Anders is quiet for a painfully long moment. “Out?”

“Like a date… with me.”

_‘Well no shit, Hawke,’_ his mind supplies, flinching a little at how dumb he must sound.

“I—”

_‘Here it comes,’_ he thinks, steeling himself for rejection.

“I would love to.” The answer surprises Hawke. “But I need some time off.”

_‘Wait, what?’_ Hawke’s brain reels, wondering if Anders is suddenly asking for space because he’s coming on too strong. The two statements send mixed messages, ones that Hawke can’t quite decipher. Does he mean they have to wait?

Anders must catch on to his train of thought quickly as his eyes widen and gasps. “I have exams very soon.”

“Oh... Oh!”— _‘Thank the Maker!’_ —“Right, of course. When?”

“A week starting next Tuesday?” Anders says, looking relieved when Hawke approves his request with a simple nod. A silent beat passes, and Anders’ eyes nervously dart away and he rubs the back of his neck with the hand that Hawke’s not currently holding. “I have a lot of studying to do… I don’t think I’ll have the time to go out, I’m sorry.”

“It could be your break,” Hawke suggests, squeezing the man’s hand who instinctively returns the gesture. 

“Please,” he adds quietly when he doesn’t get an answer.

Silent for a moment that stretches unbearably, but Anders finally agrees with a small smile and pink rising on his cheeks. The answer lifts a weight off Hawke’s chest that he didn’t know had gathered. They bid each other goodnight, and Hawke stalks back towards the club entrance as he listens to the sound of a car’s engine fade into the distance.

The outcome of the chase must show on his face as Isabela casts him a supremely self-satisfied grin when he returns to the office. Heart fluttering like wings against his ribs, he’s too elated to even ask her to move from his chair or take her feet off the desk.

He has a date with Anders.

One of his employees.

_Shit_.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *puts on sunglasses* so... Handers, eh?


	10. Work From Home - 5th Harmony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Anders go on a date and neither of them want it to end.

Studying for final exams for medical school is a lot like studying for his undergraduate exams—though a hundred times more arduous, time-consuming, and soul-destroying. Between staring down his anatomy sketches and reading his organic chemistry textbooks for hours on end, Anders sleeps even less than usual. He had previously considered it an impossible feat, but the inescapable deadlines and thirty-page test booklets loom threateningly over his head.

Studying is nobody’s favorite pastime, but it’s a necessary evil.

Four hours into a session with his immunology textbook on Friday night, Anders hears his phone vibrate. The buzzing sound is faint, muffled by something—which is concerning since he can’t tell where the sound is coming from. He searches for it among his bedsheets where he may have fallen asleep with it, coming up with nothing except a disgruntled and sleepy cat. It’s not beneath the stacks and stacks of practice exams, notebooks, and loose paper on his desk either. Nor is it in yesterday’s pockets.

With his hands on his hips and his brow furrowed, he stands in the center of his room. He glares at his meager possessions suspiciously, scanning all the possible hiding spots for his phone. Thankfully the phone buzzes a second time, and he’s able to pinpoint the sound coming from… His dresser?

Strangely enough, his phone is hidden among his mismatched socks, plain pairs half-eaten by the machine in the building’s basement. He stares at the thing, which vibrates again in his hand to signal another message. Finally he remembers why he stashed it there—it was to keep himself from becoming distracted. It was always so tempting to help stave off the inevitable—look up videos, become entrenched in Wikipedia, or take pictures of Ser Pounce.

Or keep checking to see if he’s received a text from a certain man.

He spares a glance at the blinking screen, spotting two new messages from a number he doesn’t recognize.

_[Unknown: Hey, I know it’s last_   
_minute but how does tomorrow_   
_sound? I know a place in Lowtown_   
_where we could get drinks.]_

_[Unknown: Unless you’re too busy._   
_We could always try another day.]_

His heart flutters like hummingbirds caged in his chest. When he didn’t hear from him in a few days, Anders started to believe that Hawke regretted asking him out on a date. But now there is a text on his phone, assuring him that the opposite is true. He adds Hawke to his contacts before tapping out a reply.

_[Anders: Tomorrow sounds great!]_

The instant his thumb hits ‘Send,’ he winces at his own words. Hopefully that didn’t sound too eager and enthusiastic.

_[Hawke: Good. How does 7pm_   
_sound? I can pick you up?]_

_[Anders: Yes to both.]_

And with a push of a button, it’s a date.

The next evening, Anders stands in the dingy luminescent lighting of his bathroom and frowns at his reflection in the mirror. He’s exhausted and it _shows_. The darkness beneath his eyes captures his attention the most, making him much older than his humble twenty-six years. The dark lighting of the club and a spot of concealer does the trick to keep him looking youthful and energized for clients, but he doesn’t think there’s truly anything he can do to hide it tonight.

He runs his fingers through his hair, pulling it away from his face. Brushing his shoulders, it’s almost long enough to put it all in an elastic band. Being so busy, he hadn’t realized that it’s been months since he’s last got it trimmed.

Just as he gathers half of it into a ponytail, his phone vibrates and skitters across the tile countertop.

_[Hawke: I’m outside.]_

Those two words are both thrilling and anxiety-inducing. After pining for an embarrassing length of time, it was actually happening. He’s going on a date with Hawke—a handsome, charming, and caring man… who employs him… who sees him nearly naked every day.

Frowning, he feels a little bothered by that even though he knows he shouldn’t. What his body looks like hasn’t been a mystery since the first day. He shakes his head in an attempt to rid his head of those useless troublesome thoughts. 

With one last glance at his appearance, he grabs his coat and heads toward the door.

The winter sun has already set, casting Darktown in even more shadow than usual. The streetlamps of his block are broken or poorly maintained, so Anders can barely make out the form of a sleek red car on the street just in front of his building. It’s vaguely familiar, having seen it in the parking lot and fallen asleep in it when he was sick, but most likely still couldn’t name the make or model.

Hawke smiles at him when he slides into the passenger seat, looking even more devastatingly handsome than any strip club owner should. A black wool peacoat stretches over broad shoulders with the collar slightly popped behind his neck. Hair brushed and beard trimmed, Hawke looks impeccably put together and Anders finds it difficult to look away from the strikingly handsome man beside him.

He was expecting Hawke to dress more casual, like the time he came into the clinic with Bianca and suddenly feels underdressed in his v-neck shirt and jeans. He’s never felt self-conscious about his wardrobe, but now the carefully sutured tear in the knee of his pants feels more noticeable than ever.

“Where are we going?” he asks as they reach the edge of Darktown.

“Ever been to The Hanged Man?” Anders shakes his head. “It’s a small bar in Lowtown owned by a friend of mine. It’s not fancy, but it’s a good bar.”

As it turns out, the term ‘bar’ has many definitions. The Hanged Man is a hole-in-the-wall dive off one of the backstreets of Lowtown. The main room is wall-to-wall wood, filled with scattered mismatched tables and benches that are already occupied by Lowtown citizens meeting with close friends and coworkers.

A few people greet Hawke by name when they arrive. Weaving through the tables, they settle for two tall chairs at the bar off to the side where it’s less busy. When finally seated, Hawke turns to him.

“So,” he begins. “How’s studying?”

“Good. Well, it’s awful, but as good as it can be.”

Hawke chuckles, a deep warm rumble that Anders wants to hear forever. Gold-threaded eyes watch as he reaches over to tenderly brush a strand of hair out of his face to behind his ear. The accidental brush of his fingers against his check makes Anders shiver and Hawke’s expression softens to one of genuine concern. “Are you getting any sleep?”

Despite knowing the honest answer is clearly written on his face, Anders shrugs. “Enough.”

“Don’t push yourself too hard, you don’t have me around to carry you off to bed this time,” Hawke says, playfully nudging him in the side. Anders can already feel the crests of his cheeks burn as he remembers the night when he fell ill—the blurry memories of Hawke taking him home and helping him to bed. “What made you decide on medical school?”

Anders shrugs. “I’ve always wanted to help people. I thought about becoming a lawyer—”

“Ambitious.”

“—but when I saw how many people go without proper medical care, I knew it was my duty to help right this injustice.”

Hawke mumbles something about ‘Justice,’ piecing together the origin of his stage name. The bartender comes to their end of the bar, taking their order for two beers and an appetizer to share.

“What about you? How does anyone come to own a strip club?”

Hawke barks out a laugh, pausing only to thank the bartender for their drinks. “You mean _‘exotic dance club’?_ And it’s a bit of an odd story.”

“But those are the best kind,” he replies, leaning his elbow on the counter as he listens intently.

“They are,” Hawke agrees, flashing him a dazzling grin. “One night during my second year in college, I got pretty fucking drunk with Isabela. We were trying to avoid studying for finals.” He laughs. “Not all of us are studious like you. Anyway, we spent the evening in this very bar talking about a hundred other things we could be doing other than college.”

Anders cocks an eyebrow. “And _‘exotic dance club’_ was one of them?”

“Well, Isabela came up with it, but yeah. The next morning, she called me and said _‘we could do that. We should do that. Let’s do that.’_ So we dropped out and went into business together.”

“It was that simple?”

“Hah, I wish it was,” Hawke replies, shaking his head before taking a sip of his beer. “It took a lot of work, but everything seemed to work out. A friend of mine helped me out with finances and somehow I got lucky enough to stumble upon a broke man named Hubert who was willing to sell me the property. It was a bit rundown, but as cheap as it gets.”

“And here you are.”

“And here _we_ are,” Hawke amends, reaching out and laying his arm over the back of Anders’ chair. “The Bone Pit’s a team, if not a family. Dancers and staff have come and gone over the years—you being the newest one. And Merrill replaced the old bartender just a few months before you.”

“I’ve been curious,” Anders starts after a pause, looking over at the man leaning toward him to listen, who’s arm is close enough to feel. “You mentioned you knew ‘from experience’ that Merrill can handle herself. It’s not that I don’t believe you but…”

“She looks harmless, right?”

He nods. “Kind of, yeah.”

“Well, that story is thankfully rather simple. She stabbed a guy.” 

Anders chokes on his drink, thumping his chest with his fist as he tries to process both the liquid and the outright confession of crime. The expression on his face must be quite the sight, as his employer laughs even harder at his reaction.

Hawke continues, eyes gleaming as he smiles. “We were being robbed at gunpoint just after a shift when the club was still new to the neighborhood. She just… pulled out a knife and got him.”

Catching his breath, he casts a dubious look at him. “She literally brought a knife to a gunfight.”

“And she won!” he exclaims, raising his drink in a toast to the woman not with them.

“Frankly, I’m surprised even anyone even tried to rob you since you’re, you know…” Anders trails off with a shrug, vaguely motioning to all of the other man. Hawke raises his eyebrow. “Huge.” 

He laughs again, shaking his head. “That may be true, but it’s still a gun.”

With a nod, Anders agrees and the two of them fall into a companionable silence. Staring down at his half-full glass of beer, he finally steps back and considers the situation. He’s on a date with the man who employs him—but not only that, Hawke is witty and charming, who sees him dance nearly naked almost every day, and it’s… wonderful.

Over the past few months of working at The Bone Pit, Anders has come to love many aspects of Hawke. In particular, he loves how Hawke’s shock of dark hair grows messier over the course of a shift and how he always loosens his tie little by little every hour. He’s drawn in by the deep brown of his eyes and the deep timbre of his voice that only heightens his desire.

Even now, he can feel Hawke’s arm resting on the back of his chair if he leans back enough, nearly curling around him. The other man’s presence is large and encompassing, making Anders feel like they’re the only people in the room. It’s brilliantly distracting and he can’t seem to focus on anything but Hawke.

“You know, I think this is the longest time I’ve seen you with my clothes still on.”

“We can change that,” Hawke offers with a wink. Anders sputters, choking on his drink for a second time. The man’s smirk falls, pulling away and giving him an empathetic quirk of the lips. “Sorry.”

Anders knows he’s turning red from all the images that kindle like a fire in his head. “No, no, it’s okay—”

“Well, if it isn’t my good friend Hawke!”

Both of them twist in their chairs toward the source of the voice—a blond dwarf dressed in a red velvet leisure jacket and a shirt unbuttoned enough to expose an impressively hairy chest. He holds his arms wide and smiles at Hawke, who eagerly slides off his chair to give him a hug.

“It’s been awhile, far too long. A month? Two?”

“Try two weeks, but it’s good to see you back in my bar, Hawke,” the dwarf says. “I was beginning to think you were working yourself so hard you didn’t have time to stop and have a drink with your closest friend.”

“It’s been a busy season.”

The dwarf agrees with a nod before he switching his attention to Anders, looking him up and down before turning back to Hawke. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Of course,” Hawke begins. “Anders, this is Var—”

“Varric Tethras,” the dwarf says with a curt theatrical bow before offering his hand. “Author and businessman extraordinaire, and owner of this fine establishment.”

His grip is firm when they shake hands. “Anders.”

“Anders…” the dwarf repeats, considering the name for a moment. “Could you possibly be the dancer Hawke is always talking about?”

“Varric!”

Blinking, he spares a glance at the other man, who looks mortified. He wonders just what and how much has been said about him. “I suppose I am. And you must be Bianca’s father.”

The mention of the girl lights up Varric’s face with pride only a father could know. “None other! She’s my little sweetheart, my pride and joy, the light of my life. Seriously, the two of you should join me at my private table.”

Hawke hesitates at the invitation, then shakes his head. “I think we’ll pass today, Varric.”

The bar owner’s eyes flicker between them, eyes narrowing. “... Hm, of course. Well, I shouldn’t keep you any longer. You kids have fun tonight, and don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

When Varric walks away, Anders turns back to Hawke. “He seems nice.”

“Yeah, he’s been a friend of mine since I came to Kirkwall. Well, he was Isabela’s friend first, but you can’t frequent The Hanged Man without eventually meeting him,” Hawke replies, smiling softly as he recalls pleasant memories. He finishes the rest his beer in one gulp, setting the empty glass on the counter with a click. “Varric’s actually the one who put up the money for The Bone Pit, though I’ve long since paid him back.”

Anders finds that he could spend hours talking with Hawke, exchanging stories and getting to know his background, his funny and caring personality, his likes and dislikes. They have a fair amount in common, which only serves to double his attraction to the man. But the night passes too swiftly after two slowly-sipped drinks and he knows they can’t stay and talk forever.

When they leave around a quarter to ten, Anders notices they take a slightly longer route to Darktown, weaving through the edges of the city. Just as he’s thinking, Hawke probably doesn’t want the evening to end either. Anders can’t recall the last time he was this relaxed and content, not worrying about school or work or bills. The idea of going back to his apartment to be alone with his books and study guides is one of the least appealing things he can think of.

Anders can think of only two ways for this date to end. He could thank Hawke for a wonderful evening, scale the many flights of stairs to his apartment, and return to studying like a good student striving to become the best doctor.

Or… 

He could invite Hawke up, with an offer of coffee or dessert. The thought of the man in his apartment, on his couch or even in his bed, is painfully tempting and brings images to his mind that add fuel a fire that has been burning deep within since Hawke’s clothing remark.

Though he’d loathe to admit it, he’s wanted him since the day they met, that fateful interview with the most charged dance he’s ever given. Since then, the need for his smile, his touch, his body pressed against his own has only grown exponentially.

Anders spares a glance at Hawke, taking in his handsome profile and the broad build of his body for the hundredth time that night. 

If he asks, would he say yes?

Brown eyes flicker his direction, connecting their gazes for only a moment before Hawke turns his attention back to the road and Anders turns away, blushing about being caught looking.

What he doesn’t expect is Hawke taking one hand off the wheel and resting it between them, palm facing up in a tentative offer. Anders stares at it for a few seconds before hesitantly reaching out, setting his hand on Hawke’s. Their fingers curl and lock together instantly, hands warming against each other. 

No more words are said, but they both smile.

When they reach Anders’ side of the neighborhood, his mind is scrambling, trying to figure out what he should do in regards to Hawke. His heart says invite him to bed, but his head says it’s a terrible idea.

Instead of dropping him off on the sidewalk outside his building, Hawke parks on the street at the corner in order to walk him to the door. Anders isn’t completely sure what to make of it, but the time to overthink it all is running out.

They come to a stop at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the building’s front door, turning to stare at each other while Anders finds the right words swarming throughout his head.

“Thank you, I had a nice time,” he says with full honesty. ‘Nice’ might even be not a strong enough word for what he’s trying to say—the evening was perfect, more relaxing than he thought it would be on a date with the man who employs him.

Hawke grins at him, his breath coming out in a puff of smoke in the chilly night air. “Was it a good study break?”

“Yeah,” Anders replies with a chuckle. “Very good.” 

So good he wants to do it again already.

Something warm brushes against his hand, breaking him out of his thoughts. Hawke takes his hand and loosely laces their fingers together before taking the other one, palms pressed flat as they turn to face one another. There’s this unstoppable gravity pulling them together, both bodies slowly pushing forward inch by inch until their breaths intermingle between them. Their gazes connect, holding intensely as their lips draw close and their eyes lower.

The kiss is soft and sweet, hesitant in nature, and ends far too quickly for Anders’ liking. He wants to melt into it, take in the warmth of the man’s embrace and forget about the cold air of winter for just a little while. His brain reminds him that this doesn’t have to end here, not if they both wished it so. Brief glimpses of familiar fantasies flash through his mind—of Hawke’s burly body arched over him, pushing him down into the mattress and ravishing him until they’re both exhausted but happy and satisfied. Even if they didn’t end up with their clothes off, he could still kiss Hawke endlessly if he were allowed. 

But even then, he still has doubts… doubts that aren’t making as much sense as they used to.

When they pull apart, the ghost of Hawke’s lips still lingers on his own for a few seconds more before it fades. The moment the feeling is gone, he already sorely misses it, wanting to feel it once more, then maybe again after that.

When Hawke turns to leave, Anders feels his grip loosen and the man’s hands begin to slip out of his. Unable to stop himself, he grasps onto one, holding onto it tightly. The unexpected action makes Hawke pause, turning to face him with a slight look of hopefulness etched in his expression. 

When Anders doesn’t say anything—too busy sorting through his conflicted thoughts about inviting him upstairs—Hawke simply offers him one last smile and gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Goodnight, Anders.”

Hawke turns back the way he came, his black coat helping him blend in as he walks down the dark sidewalk and disappears into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for how long this took me to post. The holidays are always very stressful with my family, and spending time with them always takes me far from my home, my computer, and my peace of mind. I hope this makes up for the wait, and from now on, the plot is in the abyss.
> 
> Kudos are great, comments fuel my fire!
> 
> Come find me on tumblr @ storybookhawke


	11. Best I Ever Had — Drake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke thinks his date with Anders was a mistake, overstepping the proper boundaries between employer and employee. Anders, however, has different thoughts.

Hawke doesn’t sleep that night.

He drove through the dark streets of Kirkwall with a pleasant smile on his face, but the more he thought about the evening, the more the smile faded.

The date was an objective success, with banter and flirting going both directions and no prolonged moments of awkwardness Hawke initially anticipated. Not to mention the kiss at the end of the evening, the ghost of which still settles on his lips. On the drive to the apartment, Hawke noticed that Anders was troubled. The way he hesitated before and after the kiss, unable to voice whatever it was that he was thinking. Was he going to say it was a mistake?

Sheets kicked aside from restless turning, Hawke lies sprawled across his king-sized bed, helpless in keeping himself from thinking, thinking, and thinking some more. As an owner of a lucrative but legally precarious business, considering all the possible ways things could go wrong is practically second nature. There’s a million things that are flying through his mind—most of which he’s already thought of but still feel fresh in his mind.

As his employer, has he overstepped his bounds?

What if this ends poorly? Or worse?

What if Anders tells him off the next time they meet?

Oh Maker, what if he quits and leaves forever?

Each thought is more and more concerning, making his heart seize with worry. Isabela was right, he’s absolutely smitten with the man. But that’s where the problem lies, isn’t it? It’s because of his feelings that both of them are even in this predicament in the first place. The last thing he wants is for Anders to feel forced into this with him.

Rolling onto his back, Hawke pulls a pillow over his face and groans into it before getting out of bed.

He has to end this. Before it has a chance to get worse.

◆

Hawke’s legs carry him up the stairs more steadily than he feels himself. The way the wooden steps creak beneath his feet is somehow intimately familiar despite only being there once before. Anders’ apartment is on the third floor of a four story building, at the end of the short hall that smells of cigarettes and old, possibly-molding wood. The door makes a hollow sound when he knocks.

“It’s six-fifty in the morning, who in Andraste’s flaming—” a voice says, muffled by the door and the sound of a heavy latch being undone. When the door swings open, the rest of the sentence dies instantly. Amber eyes widen at the sight of him, going from surprise to confusion. He’s dressed in loose pajama pants that have seen better days, and an overstretched t-shirt that shows a distracting amount of his shoulders.

“Hawke,” he begins, not bothering to hide his confusion nor the yawn that follows. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Sorry,” Hawke says, not realizing it’s that early. He runs his hand through his hair which is undoubtedly a mess already and realizes he’s also more dressed down than usual, having rolled out of bed and pulling on the nearest clean clothes—a red sweatshirt and a black pair of sweatpants. “I guess I didn’t think to look at a clock before leaving. I just... really needed to talk to you.”

As the last few words leave his mouth, Hawke can see Anders’ whole demeanor change on his face. He leers anxiously at him, body slanting until he leans on the side of the doorframe.

“About?”

“Last night was a mistake,” Hawke says while exhaling a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Anders’ expression drops and he looks… _crushed_ , which only makes Hawke’s heart ache more. He’s doing what’s best for both of them, he reminds himself, in the long run. “I’m your boss and you’re my employee and I’m taking advantage here. I think—”

“What about what _I_ think?” Anders says suddenly, his voice rising a little to disrupt the eerie quiet in the hallway. Hawke stays silent and Anders crosses his arms. “Well?”

Is this a serious question? “What… what do you think?” 

“I think—” Anders begins, looking pleased that he asked when prompted. He reaches to hold Hawke’s jaw between his fingers, and Hawke becomes putty in the man’s hands, letting himself be guided. “—that _this—_ ”

Anders brushes their lips together while Hawke’s eyes flutter closed for only a heartbeat. The man’s lips are as soft and gentle as he remembers and it almost pains him when they part, almost as if last night happened a long time ago.

“—isn’t taking advantage of anyone,” Anders finishes, stepping back and giving him a casual, one-shouldered shrug. “But if that’s what you really want…”

“I _don’t—_ ” Hawke replies, his voice cracking as the real truth—not the truth he wanted himself to believe—comes bubbling up and out of him. He clears his throat and tries again. “I don’t want that. Definitely not.”

“Good, neither do I.” Anders smiles at him, looking tired but considerably less tense than moments before. “Has anyone told you that you overthink everything?”

“Yes, a lot actually!” Hawke says, barking out a laugh that still retains the residual uneasiness that’s slowly draining from him. He thinks about all the discussions he’s had with Isabela, whether he wanted them or not, and how she’s been telling him this since the beginning. He sighs, running his hand through his hair once more. Dear Maker, he must look like quite the mess. “I guess I almost fucked everything up today, I’m sorry.”

“Almost,” Anders agrees, “but the important thing is you didn’t.”

Rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, Hawke doesn’t know what more to say, not after all the shit he’s already said and now desperately wishes he never did. He moves to turn, to take a step back from Anders’s doorstep to excuse himself from this rather embarrassing situation he’s put himself in.

But a hand stops him, long fingers wrapping around his forearm and bidding him to stop, to pay attention. Hawke’s eyes dart back to Anders, who slides his hand down Hawke’s arm, over his wrist and threads their fingers together.

“Well?”

Eying Anders curiously, Hawke raises a brow as he tries to guess what Anders is asking. Coming up short, he tilts his head. “ _‘Well’_ what?”

“Are you coming in? I don’t know about you, but it’s dreadfully early and I’d like to get at least another hour or two of sleep before I spend another day bent over a stack of books.”

Hawke is stunned. It’s a bold question, an open invitation that Hawke’s gut tells him he should refuse except for the hand wrapped around his asking him to accept. He looks closer at the other man’s face. Anders’ cheeks are pink and his eyes aren’t quite meeting Hawke’s face, but he’s smiling.

Suddenly Hawke realizes that’s what Anders was freaking out about the night before.

Nodding, he wordlessly follows Anders into the apartment. He’s guided past a miniscule kitchen, through a dingy little den, and into a small bedroom with a double bed. It’s clean, but a little crowded with Anders’ desk occupying one corner and a dresser in another. True to his word, there’s a shocking amount of textbooks and notebooks piled on the surface, as well as a few empty mismatched water glasses and coffee mugs.

It’s strange, getting into someone else’s bed without having a direct, usually sensuous end goal in mind. However, Anders seems quite content with the ordeal, quickly scooting over and curling an arm across Hawke’s chest. With a few tendrils of morning light streaming through the room’s only window, Anders’ eyes are bright and full of flecks of gold and the sight of them takes Hawke’s breath away. Will he ever not be amazed by this man?

Stretched out on the bed together, arms intimately encircling each other—it isn’t at all how Hawke imagined their first time in bed together. His dreams usually involved less clothes and more kissing, but he’ll definitely settle for this. Anders kisses him once, then twice! Four in less than twelve hours from the first, more than Hawke could have ever expected after the night of thinking he’s had.

Though Hawke would be perfectly content with holding and kissing him for hours, it doesn’t take long for Anders to fall asleep with his head on his chest, his breath slowing and evening out. Hawke feels guilty for breaking into his precious sleep time. The man already gets so little while working three jobs and the last thing he needed was Hawke showing up at his door at six-something in the morning.

But with the air cleared and Anders sleeping peacefully in his arms, it was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what I consider "The End," but there is ONE MORE CHAPTER that could be considered like a smutty epilogue.


	12. Dance For You — Beyonce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke dances for Anders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the “epilogue,” which is basically a smut “I’m sorry for the wait” chapter.

It’s been only a few months since they first started dating, but Anders can say with relative certainty that things have been going well. For the most part.

The situation surrounding their relationship is a little unconventional—still employer-employee, Hawke still watching him strip for strangers almost nightly—but they make it work. But it hasn’t been a perfect journey. Ever since a few bouts of jealousy and an argument about relationship boundaries, they’ve both stressed the value of clear communication and it’s saved them a lot of trouble.

It wouldn’t have worked otherwise.

It’s a Sunday night, the only time where they’re both guaranteed a day off, and Anders is lying on Hawke’s couch. Well, lying _on Hawke_ on Hawke’s couch. There’s no place he’d rather be at this moment, cuddled against his boyfriend’s broad chest that gently rises and falls with every slow, steady breath. There’s an old mystery movie playing on the television, but Anders hasn’t been paying attention to it, only listening to the man’s heartbeat while fingers absently thread through his hair.

“Anders?” Hawke says after a time, keeping his voice quiet.

“Hm?” Anders moves, rousing from his doze. The fingers in his hair slow to a pause. “Mn, don’t stop.”

Chuckling, Hawke starts massaging his scalp again and Anders nearly melts as the edges of his blunt nails reach the nape of his neck. “I have a surprise to show you in the bedroom.”

At the news, Anders pushes himself up to his elbows, looking at Hawke with a growing smirk. If Hawke wants to play the innuendo game, he’s ready to fire back this time. “Oh? Are you sure it’s a surprise? Or have I seen it before?”

Hawke snorts, moving to sit up on the couch as Anders slides off him reluctantly. “No, it’s something new.”

“Hm… how disappointing,” Anders says with a sly smile. He stands, stretching his arms high above his head while waiting for Hawke to lead the way.

Instead, two thick strong arms wrap around his waist, quickly and effortlessly hoisting him off his feet. Anders lets out a yelp and scrambles to hook his legs around Hawke’s waist. It isn’t necessary, since Hawke could easily carry him with one arm or slung over his shoulder as he’s previously discovered, but he still gets a little thrill out of it when Hawke displays his strength and manhandles Anders in such a loving way.

Clinging to each other, they’re practically incapable in keeping themselves from kissing. Hawke’s tongue licks its way into his mouth and Anders surrenders to it, arms wrapping around his neck while Hawke walks them across the house.

Something solid thumps against Anders’ shoulder, causing him to crack an eye open to see that it’s the wall near the bedroom. He smiles against Hawke’s lips, playfully thudding a fist against his solid shoulder blade. “Look where you’re going!”

“I’d rather look at you,” Hawke mumbles, kissing him deeply again while he kicks the door open, revealing the house’s master suite. A large king-size bed occupies the middle, and the lamp on the bedstand is already turned on, casting the room in a dim but warm glow. Anders has spent a handful of nights—and sometimes long and splendid afternoons—in the room, but the novelty of Hawke taking him to bed has yet to wear off.

His heart does a little jump as Hawke drops him onto the bed, not bouncing but immediately sinking into the memory foam mattress. He habitually keeps his legs spread invitingly, reaching to pull his boyfriend down to his level by the collar of his shirt. When Hawke pulls away, he frowns.

Instead, Hawke takes a few steps back, reaching toward a small stereo on the dresser and flicking the power switch. Soft, sultry music begins playing and Hawke spins on his heel to face Anders. His fingers rise to undo his shirt buttons, but when Anders begins taking off his own clothes, Hawke raises a hand to stop him.

“Just me right now,” he says, giving Anders a wink that makes something in his chest flutter.

Why wouldn’t Hawke want him undressed? Anders stares at the other man—slowly beginning to twirl his hips as the shirt opens to reveal more and more of his broad hairy chest—and then it dawns on him. Instantly his mouth goes dry, staring up at his boyfriend with wide eyes full of eager anticipation.

“Are you—?”

Hawke nods. “Yes.”

Sitting up properly, Anders watches as if he were in a trance, eyes tracking his every movement and drinking in every inch of skin that is revealed while Hawke does his own version of a striptease. He’s obviously unpracticed, but he’s not a dancer at the Bone Pit, he owns it. But any shortcomings he may have are easily compensated by his boundless enthusiasm, seducing Anders with well-timed glances and excellently measured teases of skin. He falters a few times, but with a body his size, it’s no wonder that he’s a little awkward.

 _‘With a body his size,’_ Anders’ mind echoes, swallowing dryly as Hawke sheds his shirt and belt all while swaying to the beat of the music. There’s just… so much of him. Hawke is a mountain of a man, with broad shoulders and thick in all the _right_ places. In any other situation, Anders would wonder about how Hawke has time to keep up with his physique, but then there’s a little flash of red that drains every coherent thought from his mind.

Immediately Anders’ gaze is drawn to Hawke’s hips, where the man has just unzipped his pants to reveal the unmistakable sight of red lace straining to cover his cock. _‘Lingerie,’_ Anders thinks, and it’s nearly the only word he can come up with in his short-circuiting brain. Hawke is wearing _lingerie._

Eyes glued to the tiny triangle of red lace, Anders can barely breathe as Hawke moves towards him, hips undulating to the music. Hawke comes to stand just between his spread knees, so temptingly close. He reaches out, to touch, to feel, to pleasure, but Hawke gently bats his hand away.

“Club rules: no touching the dancers,” Hawke says, his voice husky and dripping with mischief and desire. Cupping Anders’ face, he stops moving enough to kiss him, his teeth dragging across his lips. “But you can touch yourself.”

Anders looks up to his boyfriend, who thumbs the belt loops of his pants and raises his eyebrows as if to say _‘go on.’_ He unzips his jeans, releasing his cock that is already hard with precome beading at the tip. Not bothering to ruin the mood by hunting for lube, Anders licks his palm before wrapping his hand around his length and giving it a few good strokes.

Hawke looks pleased, the corner of his mouth turning up as he makes a show of turning his back to Anders. He looks over his shoulder and, without missing a beat, he teases his pants down a few inches, just enough so the lacy waistband to peek out from beneath the dark denim.

It doesn’t take long for Hawke’s pants to slide further down his hips, finally dropping to the floor to reveal strong, muscular legs. The lingerie clings to his sharp hips, straining to contain his hardened cock. But what draws Anders’ attention is the design. The lace separates in the back, revealing a captivating amount of his firm ass. Thin red ribbon stretches across his skin, lacing the panties together and topped with a decorative bow.

Hawke chuckles, most likely at the stupid look on Anders’ quickly reddening face as he’s stunned by the sight before him. His hand has been working over his cock, unconsciously speeding up over time. When Hawke’s shirt joins his pants on the floor, Anders feels his breath knocked out of his lungs, taking in his partner in his entirety.

With Hawke moving tauntingly close before smiling and stepping away, Anders bites his lip to muffle the moans he’d otherwise be making. He never thought he’d have a size kink, but the fact that Hawke is big all over gets his body heated and his mind foggy. It’s no difficulty for Hawke to hold Anders down, keep him lovingly helpless in his grasp and while he does whatever he wants to him. This very same man is now giving him a private show, wearing lacy panties and now grinning at him.

Suddenly Anders sees the appeal of strip clubs.

His hand pumps frantically over his length, melding both dancing Hawke and dominant Hawke into one in his mind. Anders’ eyes drop to where Hawke’s cock presses against the fabric, mesmerized and overcome with lust and _want, want, want._

Too quickly, the song comes to an end and Anders comes back to the moment to see Hawke leaning over him, one hand planted on Anders’ shoulder and brown eyes bright in the lamplight.

“ _H-hawke,_ ” Anders whimpers, so needy.

Like a dam breaking, Hawke is immediately on him, mouth laying siege to his, the rest of his body claiming him. Anders’ cock is trapped between them, but he can feel Hawke’s covered with feather-soft lace rub against his. Writhing beneath him, Anders bucks his hips, seeking more of the delicious friction he needs to get closer to release.

“Please,” Anders mumbles, feeling his arousal ebb and pull him from the edge he’s been chasing. Rubbing isn’t enough, not today, not after that. “Oh Maker, please, Hawke.”

“I got you.”

Hawke pulls Anders’ shirt off over his head, unceremoniously tossing it off the bed with the rest of their clothes. He pushes off Anders, giving him time to shed his pants and boxers in one go while the other man searching for the lube kept in the nightstand drawer. It’s only seconds before their lips are back on each other, touching and tasting and biting.

“Anders,” Hawke whispers between breathless kisses. “You or me?”

“Me this time.” Anders has seen enough of Hawke’s cock tonight that he wants it, needs it bad.

The thick fingers that prep him are gentle, skillfully working him open. Only two fingers in, Anders already needs more, demanding for such when Hawke hushes him. But when that thick cock finally slides in, Anders can’t suppress the shuddering moan that rolls through his body. Hawke hasn’t taken the lingerie off, just pushed it down his hips just enough to release his erection, and somehow that makes it all the more arousing.

Hawke is a force of nature at odds with itself, a gentle storm, a quiet strike of lightning. Never has Anders known anyone to be both rough and tender at the same time, not until Hawke. His thick cock fills Anders to the brim, fucking into him hard and deep and leaving him achingly empty and shaking when Hawke pulls out only to thrust in again. Thighs trembling and air caught in his chest, Anders becomes overwhelmed by Hawke’s hot touch on his prickling skin and the passionate growls in his ear. Anders clings to him tightly, aching to be closer than their bodies allow, begging to be devoured by this blissful rapture.

Heat coiling deep within, everything he feels quickly intensifies before Anders topples over the edge, coming over Hawke’s fingers firmly wrapped around his cock. It doesn’t take Hawke long to follow, fully sinking into him with a groan. Anders can feel his heart beating heavy against his ribs, looking up at Hawke from beneath heavy-lidded eyes.

The other man settles beside him, chest heaving as he catches his breath. He pulls Anders close, holding him like a precious treasure. When Hawke speaks, his voice sounds ragged but warm, full of what feels like all the affection in the world. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Anders replies. It’s not the first time they’ve said those three little words—no, that honor goes to the abrupt end of one of their arguments where the words slipped out, unintentionally but not inaccurate.

After resting for a time, Hawke nudges him in the side and breaks the peaceful silence. “So, how was my dance?”

Anders pauses, pretending to think hard about the question. He rolls in Hawke’s arms to settle on his back to stare at the ceiling. He gives Hawke a noncommittal shrug, but his faux neutrality is betrayed by the grin he’s barely able to stifle. “You could use some practice.”

Hawke blinks before barking out a hearty laugh. “Luckily I know someone. Someone who’s very good who I might be able to talk into giving me private lessons.”

Anders smiles. “With pleasure.”

**Author's Note:**

> July 4, 2017: And it's done! Thanks to the people who have been with me since the beginning, thanks for your patience and your kudos and your comments! They've really kept me going. To the people reading this fic after it was finished, I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> come find me on Tumblr @ storybookhawke !!!


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